The Caine Mutiny
by Deb3
Summary: 19th in the Fearful Symmetry series. Officers are being abducted and tortured to death while the killer taunts the police daily. How far will Horatio go to solve this case?
1. Default Chapter

Rating: PG-13.

Disclaimer: CSIM is not mine. If it were, a lot of things would be different. I do, however, own Rosalind, as well as several other characters in this one.

Series: This is the 19th in the Fearful Symmetry series. Fearful Symmetry, Can't Fight This Feeling, Gold Medals, Surprises, Honeymoon, Blackout, the Hopes and Fears, Anniversary, Framed, Sight for Sore Eyes, Trials and Tribbulations, Premonition, Do No Harm, the CSI Who Loved Me, Complications, Yet to Be, More Deadly, Photo Finish, and the Caine Mutiny. All are archived at Lonely Road and also on this site under Deb3.

Thanks: To Karen, for information, suggestions, and corrections regarding German Shepherds.

A/N: Keep in mind as you read this story that in the FS universe, Stetler does not exist, and Calleigh's family is based on TPTB's original version, although I have killed her father by this point (in Surprises). Less crucial to this story but just to complete the roll call, Speed is still alive and will stay that way, Hagen is in jail (Surprises and Blackout) and will probably stay that way, Madison doesn't exist, and Yelina is purely peripheral. Eric, of course, is Eric.

(H/C)

"I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams."

Harry Connick, Jr.

(H/C)

Consciousness returned slowly, the shadows retreating from his mind inch by grudging inch. The inner shadows were replaced by exterior darkness. Where was he? He remembered . . . what did he remember? It came back to him in fragments. A street, a call, a blow. An insistent ache gnawed at the side of his head, demanding his attention. He tried to ignore it, shifting a bit, and discovered that his hands were cuffed behind him. He was lying down, both his hands and his feet cuffed to some sort of pipe. He was shirtless, and the temperature already had him shivering. The cold, dank smell of earth assaulted his senses, and for a moment, he was caught in a panicked nightmare of being buried alive. He forced the thought away, trying to speak and shatter the silence. Only a muffled cry reached his ears, and he realized that his mouth was firmly taped shut.

'Keep thinking,' he told himself. 'Look, if you're buried alive' – one foot thumped the pipe – 'this is the oddest coffin that was ever built. Keep thinking.' It had been a creed of his mentor on the force. Keep thinking. No matter what the situation, what the showdown, don't let it overcome you. Think faster, if necessary, but keep thinking.

He wiggled as much as he could, exploring the rest of his prison. There was some sort of rough floor, plywood probably, a few inches below the pipe. This made his awkward, wobbling position along the pipe uncomfortable but hardly precarious. The smell was of earth. A cellar, maybe? Somewhere underground. He wondered how far underground. Couldn't be too far if he was still in Florida. This wasn't a prepared foundation for a building but some type of hole, with dirt walls. It was dry, though. There was a sense of air space above him, a void of several feet, he guessed, but there was no light. There also was no sound. The pipe was even colder than the air, cold metal with no hint of condensation. Not a water pipe, apparently.

The thought of water made him realize how much his mouth felt like cotton. Think of something else. Keep thinking. He gave as much of a muffled cry as he could, trying to hear if the sound bounced off a ceiling above him, and was still debating the result when another sound took precedence. Heavy, solid steps approached, echoing through his prison, eerily seeming to come through the walls as well as the ceiling. They stopped just overhead, a bit to one side, and there was a shuffling sound, then something being dragged. Then came the sound of a key, and finally, he heard the smooth swing of recently-oiled hinges.

The light assaulted him along with the rush of fresh air from above. A blinding, high-powered flashlight was aimed directly into his eyes, and he couldn't see anything at all past it. A soft chuckle reached him, then a sneering voice.

"Hands behind your back now. Oh, sorry, guess you don't have much choice, do you? You're moving around too much. You know what happens when people don't cooperate?"

Where had he heard that voice before? The thought was barely completed when it and all other thoughts were driven from his mind by the stab of the metal prongs, and the voltage from the tazer had him writhing against the pipe. He forced himself not to cry out, dignity a more efficient gag than the tape. Above him, the chuckle became an outright laugh.

(H/C)

"Pity!" Rosalind called out, stretching her hands forward.

"Pretty," Calleigh corrected, and Horatio grinned at her. In blue jeans and a sweatshirt, holding his daughter with one hand and decorating the Christmas tree with her help and interference with the other, he looked anything but professional. He had icicles in his hair, as did Rosalind, left from an exuberant toss over the top of the tree.

"She gets the point across, Cal."

"That's no reason to stop trying to improve." The lights of the tree were reflecting off the icicles, making her husband and daughter a walking, shimmering rainbow. Calleigh focused the camera she held and took a picture of them. "There's a shot to show around CSI."

Horatio smiled. "I wouldn't mind," he said simply. He swooped his daughter through the air as they recrossed the living room to get another ornament out of the box. "Which one, Angel?" Rosalind tried to grab a double handful and ended up dropping most of them. "Greed doesn't pay. I keep trying to tell people that, and the criminals don't listen, either."

"You know, Horatio, at this rate, it's going to take you all week to get this tree finished." Calleigh came over to chase stray ornaments, putting them back in the box.

"That doesn't matter. This is Rosalind's first Christmas, and she's going to be part of it. Time only counts for what you do with it."

She was to remember that line often in the dark weeks ahead.

Now, though, Calleigh was utterly lost in the moment, having been captured by his eyes as she straightened up from the box. The pure love and happiness shining in them melted her. Horatio, standing right in front of her as her husband. She wanted to admire the view and close the distance at the same time. He read the thought and met her halfway, and they were just deepening the kiss when Rosalind planted a hand on each of her parents' chests and pushed them apart. "Pity!" she said, reaching back toward the tree. She could never understand their preoccupation with kissing when there were more interesting things to do.

Calleigh sighed. "On second thought, Rosalind, the word works well enough without the R."

Horatio pulled three icicles out of his daughter's hair and carefully draped them through Calleigh's. "Leave them there, and I'll take them out later on, after Rosalind goes to sleep," he promised.

"No!" Rosalind stated. Her vocabulary was growing, and she certainly knew the words go to sleep.

Horatio's low chuckle tickled Calleigh's ears. He knelt by the box and picked up an ornament. "Let's get busy. Care to join the fun, Calleigh?" His twinkling eyes looked up at her sideways.

Calleigh put the camera down and picked up her own ornament. "Well, I guess one of us needs to take charge, or this tree won't even be done by next Christmas."

They worked on the tree together then, Calleigh making more progress solely because Horatio insisted on letting Rosalind help put on every ornament, guiding her hands. "We're going to have to be careful with these icicles, Horatio. She's crawling all over the place now, and she'll be walking soon. I don't want her to eat them."

"We're leaving them off the lowest branches. A tree just isn't complete without icicles." He carefully studied the ornament in Rosalind's hand. "Now, then, Rosalind, where should this one go?" He carefully analyzed the branches with the same focus he brought to a case. "This one, I think. Here we go, slip it over the branch. Whoops." Rosalind dropped the decorated ball, which happened on at least one out of every three, and Horatio dropped to his knees and tracked it down in a corner.

Rosalind, set temporarily on the ground, grabbed her now horizontal father, trying to climb onto his back. "Horse! Horse!"

"Not just now, Angel. We're trying to get the tree done." She paid no attention, scrambling up his arm, then falling back to land with a thump on the floor. "You okay?" Horatio picked her up, and she swarmed over his shoulder, finally arriving triumphantly on his back.

"Horse!"

Horatio gave up, obligingly heading off across the floor on all fours at a smoothly sedate pace that he still made exciting. Laughing, Calleigh quickly retrieved the camera and took another picture. "That one, now, would really make a hit at CSI."

As if summoned by her thoughts, the phone rang.

The horse paused in mid stride, and Horatio glared toward the instrument. "No. Not on Sunday afternoon."

Calleigh wasn't in any hurry to answer it, either. "It could be somebody besides work. Family, maybe." Her voice trailed off as she remembered that her mother was due for a visit later in the month. "On second thought, work wouldn't be so bad."

Horatio was carefully prying his reluctant daughter from his back. "No!" she insisted.

"Can you get it, Cal?"

Resigned, she picked up the phone, just beating the answering machine to it. "Hello?"

"Calleigh, is Horatio there?" It took her a minute to identify the voice. Not one of the team. Not one of the detectives. It was the captain.

"Yes, sir, just a minute." Horatio had made it to his feet, leaving Rosalind crawling after him in disgust, and Calleigh handed him the phone with a puzzled frown between her eyes. Why on earth would the captain be calling? A case would come from Dispatch, or from a detective or another CSI. In fact, why was the captain even at work on Sunday? He should be home decorating his own tree.

"Horatio." His eyes tightened as he listened, and Calleigh knew that regardless of the clock or calendar, their weekend had just ended. "Yes sir. I'll be right there." He hung up the phone.

"Big case?" Calleigh was still trying to work out why the captain had called himself.

"Very big. An officer has been taken hostage, and we apparently have some communication from the criminals." He kissed her distractedly, then picked up Rosalind, who was trying to climb his leg, and kissed her too. "I'm sorry, Cal, but they need me. I said I'd meet him at CSI in 20 minutes."

"It's okay, Horatio. Come here, Angel." She took Rosalind from him. "Did the captain say which officer?"

"Steve Parker."

Calleigh flinched. Steve had known Horatio from back on his Bomb Squad days. Steve had eventually transferred to Narcotics, and Horatio had gone to CSI, but they were still good friends. "Go find him, Horatio. If you need me, give me a call, and I can take Rosalind over to Alexx's."

"I will." He was buckling on his gun and badge.

"Find him or call me?" Calleigh just wanted to make sure he had registered all of her statement.

He gave her a humorless smile. "Both," he promised, then turned and left.

Rosalind stared after him wistfully, and Calleigh bent to pick up the dropped ornament under the tree. "Come on, Angel. Let's finish decorating." She picked out a branch and helped Rosalind fasten the ornament to it. As they crossed the living room to the box for another, Calleigh regretfully pulled the icicles out of her hair.

(H/C)

Horatio entered CSI and only realized when he got a startled look from someone on weekend shift that he was still wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and icicles. He carefully combed the icicles out with his fingers as he climbed the stairs to his office.

The captain was there before him, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk with the stiff posture of one who is forcing himself not to pace. He got up eagerly as Horatio entered. If he noticed his lieutenant's attire, he did not comment. "Thank you, Horatio. Sorry to disrupt your weekend."

"You didn't; the criminals did. What's the situation, sir?" Horatio sat down behind his desk, and the captain sat back down himself. An evidence envelope lay in the center of Horatio's pristine desk, but he ignored it for the moment and focused on his supervisor.

"Here's what we know. Steve's wife and children were out of town last night, visiting relatives upstate. I called her cell phone when I couldn't get an answer at home; they're on their way back now. That envelope arrived at HQ this afternoon. We didn't realize anything was wrong until then. Steve had today off, anyway. We aren't sure when he was taken, last night or this morning."

Horatio moved now, snapping a set of gloves on. He picked up the envelope and hesitated. "It arrived like this? In an evidence envelope?"

"No. It's in another envelope inside that one. I got that one from one of your people and repackaged it. The original envelope has probably been handled by dozens of people through the system, but the note inside only had three of us touch it – the secretary who opened it, her supervisor, and me."

"And, of course, the author." Horatio opened the evidence envelope and extracted the smaller one. It looked like a standard business size envelope, neatly slit with a letter opener. He extracted the note, a single piece of paper with a single line printed in block letters. He read it over, the short, harsh sentence echoing in his mind. 'Steve Parker won't be making it home for Christmas.' Finally, he looked back up.

"The secretary called her supervisor instantly, and he called me. They were careful to preserve the note's condition the best they could. I called Steve's house and got no answer. Tried his cell phone, no answer, and then Susan's, and I found out they were out of town."

Horatio centered the note on his desk on top of the envelope. "When did anyone last hear from Steve?"

"He signed out at 7:00 last night. He left in his own car. I sent an officer over to his house – no signs of the car or any sort of struggle. I've put out an APB on his car."

Horatio nodded. "I'll call in Speedle and Delko. I'll have one of them meet me at his house, Eric, I think, and put Speed to work on this note. The house probably isn't the main crime scene, but we have to rule it out." He tapped the note with one finger. "How was this delivered? It hasn't been through the Post Office. No stamp, and mail doesn't run on Sundays, anyway."

"According to the secretary, it was in the interdepartmental mail."

"I want to talk to her, too, to get a better idea of the mail procedures and whether it could have been put in by a stranger. We'll run fingerprints on the envelope; everybody with the PD is on file." He glanced back down at the note. "If there's an insider on this case, he's going to regret the day he was born."

"The same thing goes for the criminal." The captain stood up. "I'll leave you to it, but keep me informed, every step. You'll be working with Tripp. He's on his way in."

Horatio stood in turn, picking up the note and the envelope. "We'll start records searches, too. Drug busts, anyone paroled recently from one of Steve's cases. This is obviously revenge. No ransom demand, no signature, no contact information for any kind of negotiations. I'm hoping the victim choice wasn't random, but he doesn't just want revenge on Steve personally. Otherwise, why taunt us? His grudge is against the whole department." He stared at the envelope in his hands. "And now, the feeling is mutual."


	2. Caine Mutiny 2

See chapter 1 for disclaimers, rating, etc.

(H/C)

"We don't detect crime. Crime detects itself."

Frederick Irving Anderson

(H/C)

Speed pulled out the envelope from the larger evidence envelope and studied it thoroughly. It was addressed in block letters to Narcotics. Nothing struck him immediately about the ink or the envelope except the over-careful printing, but he would test everything for trace and fingerprints. The note inside was a better starting point, since it would have only been handled by a few people, three of those already on file. Evidence. Leave the interviews to others; Speed always preferred the evidence. It would tell its own story and lead them to the criminal. He started fingerprinting, raising precisely three sets. The computer informed him with a series of cheerful beeps that they belonged to the secretary, her supervisor, and the captain.

"Oh, shut up," he told the computer. "Why can't something, just once, be easy?" Of course, the fact that the note's author had worn gloves probably meant that he'd worn them handling the envelope, too, meaning that Speed was about to spend his afternoon on a waste of time. Much as he preferred evidence, he preferred useful evidence even more.

His cell phone rang, sounding as annoyingly cheerful as the computer. "Speedle."

It was Horatio. "Speed, anything yet?"

"I just got started on it a half hour ago, H."

"That," Horatio pointed out, "is why I said yet."

"The note only has three sets of fingerprints. You get three guesses whose."

Horatio sighed. "That does increase the probability that the perp is someone with a prior history, though. Which we'd guessed, but it could have also been someone extracting revenge for a relative. When you get through with the envelope and note, start the records searches. Any case involving Steve where the criminal has been released. Give it a one-year window; this probably took planning."

Speed considered the probable number of people who had gone down for drug-related charges in Miami in the last several years on cases somehow involving one of the best detectives in Narcotics. He sighed. They would probably fill a small phone book, and no doubt many of them, given the justice system these days, were released every month to return to their illegal activities. "Will do, H."

"Keep me posted."

After Horatio hung up, Speed checked the envelope for prints. As expected, he found multiple sets. Probably at least 20 people had handled it legitimately in its journey, and these prints, unlike the ones on the interior note, were all tangled and overlaid. It would take careful sorting, and at the end of that, the computer would inform him that they belonged to 20 people who had handled it legitimately. This was going to be a long afternoon. He suddenly thought of Steve Parker's wife, returning to Miami. It would be even longer for several other people than it would for him. He started the tedious process of separating the prints.

(H/C)

The secretary was one of those people who built and destroyed paper clip chains while thinking. She was thinking now. Horatio wished she would at least stick to the same number of clips connected per chain before she started taking them apart again. He forced himself to say nothing; she was trying to help, and it was a minor annoyance compared to the size of the case facing them. "The mailroom runs mail three times a day. This was in the noon delivery. I didn't notice anything at first except that the letters looked a bit odd, but once I saw the message, I knew it was serious. I didn't let anybody touch it except Sergeant Hamilton."

"And we appreciate that," Horatio assured her. "It makes our job a little easier. How difficult would it be for an outsider along the way to drop a note into the interdepartmental mail?"

"Not that hard." She indicated the two baskets on the edge of her desk, carefully labeled in and out. "Every secretary and receptionist in any department would have these, and we all have front-line desks. The public meets us first. I might think it was odd, but I'm not always looking at the baskets. A person could take advantage of a phone call or a break to drop it in."

"Or could even create an opportunity," Horatio mused. "Ask for something that required you or another secretary to turn to the file cabinet or go get some paperwork. Mrs. Hamaker, I take it you haven't noticed anyone drop anything in your in basket today other than the mailman?"

"No, I haven't." She clipped her chain into a circle. "I can't swear that there was nothing in the basket right before the mailman came, though. It was emptied after the first run, and I really didn't look until the second one. Someone could have put it there in the meantime. I'm not always right here." The circle broke apart.

"Maybe," Horatio realized, "we have a witness who is."

Tripp followed his eyes. "Security cameras."

"Right. Of course, I doubt it was put directly in this basket. More likely put in someone else's out basket; somebody with a grudge against the Narcotics department might be afraid of being recognized by them. I'm going to need security tapes from every front desk and receptionist."

Tripp nodded. "Just from today? How long does it take mail to get through the system?"

"Probably from today," the secretary replied. "This came on the second run. If it was picked up somewhere else, it would go down to the mailroom, then get delivered next run. On a Sunday, there isn't as much volume, so it would probably be just one-run turnaround time."

"When is the first mail run?" Horatio asked.

"Around 8:00 a.m."

"And the last one last night?"

"4:00 p.m."

"And Steve left work at 7:00," Tripp remarked. "It had to be put in last night sometime."

"We'll need all the security tapes from last night, then. We also ought to put out a memo to all secretaries and receptionists to watch for any outsider slipping something into their out baskets."

"You think he'll contact us again?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Horatio stated. "I think this one will play with us until we catch him, and I intend to make it a very short game. If you could work on getting the tapes and notifying all departments and secretaries, Frank, I'll go meet Eric. You might talk to the delivery person, too."

"Lot of good that will do," Tripp commented. "The mailroom isn't known for the best and brightest. Probably, on a route he did three times every day, he wouldn't notice a troop of Marines standing by a desk." He was already starting out the door as he spoke, though.

Horatio smiled at the secretary. "Thank you, Mrs. Hamaker." He whirled with graceful efficiency and headed for the Hummer.

(H/C)

Eric felt uncomfortable looking through Steve Parker's house. It was bad enough after a victim's death, but with a living owner who had committed no crime, a brother officer Eric had actually met on a few occasions, it made him feel like a voyeur. He was working his way slowly through the rooms, making a more thorough search since his first look had not yielded any obvious signs of a struggle. He hit the flashing button to listen to Steve's messages, in case there was any appointment or setup call.

"Two new messages."

"Hello, darling. I thought you'd be home by now, but that's what happens when I leave you on your own, I suppose. Can't drag yourself away from work. We're having a wonderful visit up here, and everyone misses you. I just wanted to say goodnight. So did the girls, and they're going to bed now. Say goodnight, girls."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

"Night, Dad."

"Goodnight, Steve. I love you. I'll see you Monday when we get home."

"Message left at 9:23 p.m., Saturday, December 1st." Beep.

Eric cringed. How old were the girls? He quickly spotted a picture. Probably around 7 and 10 years old.

"Steve, it's Captain Martin. Pick up if you're there. Steve? Steve?"

"Message left at 1:05 p.m., Sunday, December 2nd. End of messages."

Eric jumped as the front door opened. For a minute, he had a feeling that Steve Parker had walked back in and would find his privacy being invaded. That thought was immediately replaced by a wish that he would do just that. Eric wouldn't even mind the awkward explanation.

No such luck. It was Horatio. "What have we got, Eric?"

"Not much, H. No obvious struggle. There were two messages on the machine. The first one was from his wife, 9:23 last night, wondering where he was. The second one was Captain Martin from this afternoon."

"And Steve got off work at 7:00 and left on time."

"He had to be taken on the way home, then. That first message hadn't been listened to. The machine said they were both new messages."

Horatio nodded. "We've got to find that car. I think we can safely leave the house for the moment. Eric, take the most direct route from here to CSI and walk it, seeing if anything jumps out at you. It's a long shot, but they have paid off before."

"No problem, H. It'll give me a nice walk, anyway, and it's doing something active, not just processing dead-ends."

Horatio gave him a sympathetic half smile. "Sometimes, dead-ends can be productive. I know what you mean, though. The waiting is awful, especially knowing that it's another officer out there in danger."

Eric nodded. "Last February, when Otis had you and Calleigh, we nearly went crazy that week. I can't even count the dead-ends, and on everything we did, we were imagining you two running out of time."

Horatio bumped him on the shoulder, and his tone almost sounded guilty for a minute. "That week was awfully hard on you. You never gave up, though, and in the end, it made the difference. We won't give up on Steve, either. Now, let's keep working. I'll go back to CSI and start watching tapes." He headed for the door, and Eric was rooted to the spot for a minute, staring after him.

"That week was awfully hard on us?" he repeated in disbelief.

Horatio turned back at the door. "Coming?"

"Sure, H. Let's go." Eric followed his boss out of the house.

A car was just pulling into the driveway, and the doors opened before the engine was even switched off. Two girls spilled out eagerly, followed by their mother. "Horatio! Do you have any news?"

"Go on," Horatio said to Eric. The hopeful worry in the eyes of Susan and the girls was almost a physical wound to him. He had to talk to them, even if he didn't have much to say at the moment. Eric nodded and started off at a brisk but careful walk, eyes scanning. "Let's go inside and sit down," Horatio suggested, and Susan looked at him and nodded. She understood what he was doing and why.

"Come on, girls." She led them into the house, and Horatio reluctantly followed. The part of his job he hated the most – and possibly the part he was best at – was connecting with victims' families. He didn't have to imagine what they felt like. He knew.

Susan had sat down on the couch, one girl on either side. The older one spoke up as Horatio sat down in the recliner facing them.

"Have you found our daddy yet, Horatio?"

"Well, not yet, but we're working on it." He looked at Susan. "We think he was taken by someone on his way home from work last night."

"I should have known something was wrong. I called about 9:20, and he wasn't home yet. He never goes out alone after his shift. He hated going to bars or clubs alone. He always comes straight home." She was switching tenses between present and past, unable to fully believe either that her husband was dead or alive.

Horatio leaned forward, closing the distance. "Susan, listen to me. You had no way of knowing what had happened. We still aren't sure what happened. The only evidence we have at this point is a note, and that wasn't received until today, so suspicions last night probably wouldn't have made any difference. We would have had nothing at all to go on."

She stared at her hands, at her wedding ring. "He is going to be all right, isn't he?" asked the younger girl.

Horatio reached out to touch her arm gently. "We'll do the best we can to make sure he's all right, Rachel. Meanwhile, I need you to help me with something. Can you do that for me?" She nodded eagerly. "You and Diane take care of your mother, okay?"

The two girls looked at their mother, who was obviously trying not to cry, and snuggled a bit closer to her. "It'll be all right, Mom," one of them said.

"Let's get something to eat," the other one replied. "We've got to stay strong for Daddy."

Susan looked at Horatio with watery gratitude. The assignment was for the girls' sake more than hers. "Thank you, Horatio."

"Keep your chin up," he replied. "And being taken hostage doesn't mean you won't be found. I can testify to that." She brightened up suddenly, remembering. "I've got to get back to CSI, but I'll keep you informed."

She sounded a bit more hopeful, though no less realistic. "Go get him, Horatio."

"I will. Take care of yourself, now. The girls, too."

"We will." She stood and hugged him. He hugged each of the girls next, then left the worried, waiting house and pointed the Hummer for CSI.

(H/C)

Calleigh woke up from a restless, solitary sleep, thinking for the umpteenth time that night that she had heard him. This time, it wasn't a dream. He came down the hall on cat feet, trying to be silent, but her senses were attuned to his presence. He went into the bathroom, then came out a few minutes later and softly entered the bedroom.

"You can turn on the light, Horatio. I'm not asleep."

"I can manage, thanks." She tracked his movements as he undressed in the dark, and then he climbed into bed next to her, immediately sliding over as close as he could get. She held him, reading the answers to her questions in the tension of his neck and shoulders. He had no more progress than he had had when she had called him earlier. She glanced at the clock. It was 2:30.

"Any progress?" He would never be able to get any sleep without talking about it at least briefly.

"No. Speed can't find any unauthorized prints. I've watched hours of security tape and found nothing. Eric can't find an abduction point. We have 32 people released in the last year who were sent down at some point on a case that Steve worked. I'll start working on tracking those tomorrow, and you can watch security tapes. We have a whole collection of them, about 12 hours worth on each. Even in fast forward, it's going to take forever."

"I'm surprised you came home for a few hours. Not objecting, mind you, just surprised."

She felt his facial muscles contract in a tired grin. "It wasn't entirely voluntary."

"Who kicked you out? Alexx? I didn't think she was down there today."

"No, it was Eric and Speed. I told them to go home for at least a few hours sleep, and Eric refused to leave unless I did, too. Then, Speed pointed out that if I was still at work tomorrow in blue jeans and a sweatshirt when everybody came in, I'd cause a few heart attacks."

Calleigh chuckled, mentally blessing Eric and Speed at the same time. "Bet you would, at that."

"I did remove the icicles, at least." So did I, she thought, and the thought effortlessly jumped from her mind to his. "I'm sorry, Cal. I know I made you a promise, but I just don't feel like it right now, with Steve out there somewhere and the case . . ."

"Horatio."

"Yes?"

"Shut up." She kissed him briefly, not giving it time to develop into anything more, and snuggled down more tightly next to him. "This night is going to be too short, anyway, and I'm not going back to sleep until you're asleep, so start sleeping."

"Have you been taking lessons from Eric?"

"No, he probably learned it from me. Somebody has to know how to deal with you. Now go to sleep, Horatio."

Secure in her arms, he surprised himself by doing just that.

(H/C)

He was still wearing his watch, and in the desperate stillness, if he listened hard enough, he could hear the steady tick, something from the everyday world, measuring everyday seconds and minutes. It was oddly reassuring; each tick brought rescue closer. He knew he would be found. Keeping him in one spot just made it easier for the detectives and CSI. Right now, Horatio was putting it together, closing in. His friend would be pulling out all the stops to find him. He tried to smile at the thought, and his dry lips cracked, leaving the unmistakable taste of blood in his mouth. It took him a few minutes to work up the saliva to swallow.

Thirst wasn't an adequate word any longer. Thirst was something he had known since a child, the delicious anticipation of a cold drink on a hot Florida day. This was a raging desert, a sun burning inside him, perversely shedding only heat, no light. He was slowly shriveling in his dark prison. The only light he had seen for however long was the blinding flashlight, that and the internal fireworks that danced on the back of his eyelids with the taser. His body twitched reflexively at the thought of the taser. He still had a metal prong stuck in his chest from the last session. At least the police removed the prongs as soon as perps were subdued. His captor just left them there, to fall out or remain in place on their own.

Keep thinking. Tick, tick, tick. How long had it been? His watch face glowed in the dark; if his hands weren't cuffed behind him, he could still read it. Lot of good that would do him. Knowing the time wouldn't help him escape. No, probably better to leave the glow to the curious mice and bugs.

He wished he hadn't thought of mice and bugs. They'd never bothered him before, but here, it was different somehow. Buried underground with the creatures of darkness.

Mice. He was a boy again, slipping a mouse into Mrs. Stephenson's desk drawer in third grade. He started to smile again, and again, the taste of blood seeped into his mouth.

Cramps suddenly knotted his muscles; they came regularly now as the electrolytes in his body were depleted. He forced himself to lie still and breathe. His stomach rolled, and the image of what would happen if he vomited with his mouth taped shut tightened his whole body in sharp fear, worsening the cramps. Think of something else. They would come. They were on the way right now. Soon, he would be with Susan and the girls again. Christmas was coming up, and they would all celebrate it together. Just a matter of time.

Tick, tick, tick.


	3. Caine Mutiny 3

"Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the Rime of the Ancient Mariner

(one of the most often misquoted lines in literature)

(H/C)

Horatio's first task the next morning was to reshuffle work assignments. He wanted his best people on Steve Parker's case, but he had to insure coverage for the other cases that would come in today and for older cases still in progress. Normally, he liked for his people to follow individual cases from beginning to end, not only for continuity with the evidence but for their own closure. This was different, though. This was one of their own, and for this case, he would pull people off others. No one objected, not even the rest of the CSIs who had their workload increased and unfinished cases suddenly dumped on them, requiring them to start by reading notes instead of analyzing evidence. The word was out on the grapevine, the mood of everyone in the police building complex subdued. Grim determination replaced team banter.

Tripp found Horatio in his office a little later. "Ready?"

"I think I've got everything rearranged." He picked up the printed data sheets on the convicts released in the last year. "We have 32 people here. Of those, we've found current addresses for 28. Let's go see what they know."

"Course, we haven't got warrants," Tripp pointed out.

"Maybe we can at least find out where we need to get them." Horatio glanced at his watch, wondering what Steve was going through right now. "Calleigh and Eric are both watching videos, and Speed is trying for anything else on that envelope and letter. That memo went out?"

Tripp nodded. "Yesterday. Every secretary and receptionist is on guard. If he comes back in here to drop another envelope in the mail, he's walking straight into a trap."

"Let's hope he returns, then." They headed for the elevator, both unconsciously walking a little faster than usual.

(H/C)

Calleigh usually loved Miami. It was such a restless, energetic city, always in motion, like her. Right now, though, she wished she was processing tapes from the PD in some tiny town of a few hundred citizens. "I never realized how many people come in and out of the police buildings at night." She watched another one head in, pick up an accident information form from the front desk, and walk back out.

Eric, watching his own separate screen, sighed. "Tell me about it. At least several of the areas are restricted to the public at night, or we could be watching twice this many tapes." Calleigh groaned. On Eric's screen, a man entered, stopped at the front desk in that section, and obviously tried to hit on the nightshift secretary. Eric admired her restraint. "This is the best chance we've got, though. This and the parolees. There's nothing on that envelope and letter, no prints, no trace. You can't even really analyze the writing from block letters."

"Maybe Speed will find something he missed last night." Calleigh doubted it. "By the way, Eric, thank you for sending Horatio home last night."

Eric grinned. "He was lecturing me about going home and getting a little sleep, and he looked worse than I did. That's H for you." On his screen, a drunk entered and propped himself with alcoholic balance on the edge of the secretary's desk before throwing up into her trash can.

Calleigh was watching an argument that had been transferred from its original point, most likely the scene of an accident. Two people were in animated, probably obscene conversation, while the secretary's shoulders said that she would rather be working in Podunk than Miami at the moment, too. Calleigh sighed. This was going to be a long day.

(H/C)

Speed was going over his envelope and letter once again, trying to think of anything he hadn't tried yet. Unfortunately, he couldn't. He read the message again and felt a tightening in his stomach. He hated instincts and bad feelings, always trying to define things in terms of science, but he could tell without his instruments that this perp was sick.

A man who looked vaguely familiar stopped at the door of Trace. "Have you seen Horatio around?"

"Not since early this morning. He's out with Tripp tracking parolees." Speed glanced at his watch. It was almost 1:30. He'd worked straight through lunch without realizing it. "Could I help you with something?"

The man suddenly noticed the letter and envelope on the table. "You're processing the letter? We just got another one. It came in the noon mail run." He extended an envelope.

Speed quickly pulled out an evidence envelope and handed it over. "Put it in there, then sign your name and where you got it on the front. Got to preserve the chain of evidence."

"Right." The man bent over the table to sign. Speed still couldn't remember his name.

"You work in Narcotics?"

"Yes. Chapman. The secretary on weekdays gave this to me. She wasn't the one who got the first letter yesterday." He handed the envelope back to Speed, who signed his own name on the front. "Have you found anything yet?"

"Not yet," Speed said. "Maybe this one will tell us more." He pulled the envelope out. It was identical to the other, no stamp, simply addressed to Narcotics. "Wait a minute. This came through interdepartmental mail again. All the secretaries were supposed to watch for anyone to add anything to their out baskets."

"Ours was," Chapman said. "She swears it came with the delivery from the mail room. She's been careful to watch all morning."

"Well either someone else hasn't been, or we've got an insider." Speed pulled the message out of the envelope and pressed it flat on the table. In block letters, it stated, 'Amazing that with all the water surrounding Florida, you can't drink any of it. Without fresh water, people still die, even here.'

Speed pulled out his cell phone. "H? We've got another letter." He snapped the phone shut after a minute. Chapman was still hovering, wishing he could do something more. "Thank you, Mr. Chapman. Horatio's on his way back. I'll take it from here."

Chapman reluctantly started for the door. Almost there, he turned back. "Make sure you catch this son of a bitch."

"We will," Speed promised. As Chapman left, he pulled out the fingerprinting materials, starting with the envelope. Someone had put it in interdepartmental mail, and this time, the odds were much less that a citizen had managed it.

(H/C)

Alexx was working on a homicide victim, multiple stab wounds. She looked up as Horatio entered the autopsy bay, surprised to see him down here when he was so wrapped up in the Steve Parker case. Steve, fortunately, had not yet entered her jurisdiction, and she hoped he wouldn't have to. "Horatio." The word was greeting and question rolled into one.

"I have a medical question to ask you."

Alexx put down her instruments. "This poor man won't mind waiting a few minutes."

Horatio's eyes traveled in automatic sympathy to the man on the table before he spoke. "Exactly how long can people live without water?"

"You think Steve's being held without any water?"

"We got a second note today which implied it. How long, Alexx? I want a figure."

Alexx sighed. "I can't give you an exact one, I'm afraid. Too many variables."

"Such as?"

"Activity level, for one. Exercising will get you dehydrated faster. Physical condition going into it."

"Steve's physical condition was very good."

Alexx heard the desperate hope behind the statement and hesitated, not wanting to continue her list. Horatio nailed her without saying a word, and she continued. "Physical condition while you're without water matters, too. If he's injured in any way, that would make it a lot worse, and that's something we don't know. Stress also speeds up the process."

"And that's something we can make a good guess at. The way this man is playing with us, I hate to think what he's doing with Steve. How long, Alexx? Give me a range, if you can't give me a definite day."

"It varies individually, too, all else being the same. There are cases where people have lasted well over a week without water."

"What's the bottom estimate?"

Her dark eyes met his and fell. "About three days."

He nodded. "And this is the second day. Thank you, Alexx." He left the strained courtesy hanging in the air between them, turned, and walked out of the autopsy bay, his steps perfectly measured and controlled.

She stood watching the door long after he had left. To her trained mind, hope had just vanished. Injured, tortured, stressed as he must be, Steve had no chance unless he was found soon. Breaks on cases could come quickly, but Horatio knew, and she knew from his posture, that he was nowhere close to solving this one. For the first time in her career, Alexx found herself standing over a victim and crying not for her current patient but for a future one.

(H/C)

The headache was no longer on the side of his head but all over, pressure from the inside out, pressure from the outside in. He gritted his teeth against the pain. His body was shivering uncontrollably now.

Keep thinking. He had to keep thinking.

The footsteps echoed their approach, and the flashlight stabbed him as the door overhead swung open. He closed his eyes, and the light reached through anyway, conspiring with the headache.

"How are we feeling today? Not too good, huh? Prison does that to people, too. You either knuckle under, or you get tougher. Are you weak or strong, Parker?"

He still couldn't quite place the voice. This wasn't even an interrogation; the voice wanted nothing from him. Nothing but misery.

His eyes were still closed, but he heard the taser being drawn just above him, the grip tightening, the weapon ready for action. He braced himself. The shock did not come. Silence echoed, though he knew the voice had not left, not while the air and the flashlight still guarded the opening.

Get it over with, damn you.

Several ticks later, he couldn't stand it. The anticipation was almost worse than the pain. He opened his eyes, trying to make out anything against the light, and the voltage immediately hit him, sending him into his obscene dance against the pipe. The laugh came. He hated the laugh as much as the taser now.

The voltage stopped, and the flashlight shifted its aim as it was set down on the floor overhead instead of held pointing straight at him. Still, the door didn't close. Instead, there came a familiar click that sent a reaction ripping through every nerve ending in his body, almost like a taser of sound. The crisp snap of a can being opened. The man drank above him, pausing several times to smack his lips in appreciation. "Good stuff, Parker. Ice cold. Not too hot today, since it's December, but I still say there's nothing like a nice cold drink to refresh you." He took the last few noisy glugs from the can, then turned it over, letting the final drops of liquid fall onto Steve's forehead. Steve twisted, unable to stop himself, desperately trying to get that liquid into him. It ran down his nose, across the tape, and trickled away as the laughter rang above him.

When the door finally swung shut, Steve lay there still feeling that thin, damp trail across his chin, then down the side of his neck. No doubt the mice and bugs were enjoying the liquid on the floor beneath the pipe. He refused to let himself cry, to lose the precious liquid tears, but for the first time in all of this, he wanted to. Not for his wife, or his children, or things undone in life, but over a thin, wasted trail of cheap beer.

(H/C)

"Hey. How's it going?"

Calleigh and Eric both turned from their screens to find Horatio leaning against the door in his classic manner, propping himself up casually while his body still proclaimed that he could easily stand alone if he had to. "Not much progress," Calleigh admitted.

Eric stood, stretching his legs. "I think I'll go get a cup of coffee." He slipped past Horatio out the door.

"Sit down." Calleigh waved a hand invitingly at Eric's chair.

"I've got other things to do. I was just checking in for a minute." He didn't peel himself off the doorway to leave, though.

"Sit down for just a minute, then." Horatio hesitated another few seconds, then dropped into the chair. It felt amazingly good to get off his feet. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember sitting down other than driving since he had left his office this morning. "What's wrong, Horatio?"

He didn't give the obvious response. She knew him, and he knew her, too well for that. "We got a second letter."

"Did they catch the man who left it?"

"No. Somehow, it got into the interdepartmental mail unseen again. Might be more videos for you to watch, I'm afraid." He stared at Eric's screen, at the blinking phrase. Pause. Exactly.

"A lot of this job is ruling things out. You've said that yourself. It isn't a waste of time, Horatio."

"I wouldn't mind if we were just wasting our time, but I hope we're not wasting Steve's, and I'm afraid . . ." His voice trailed off.

Calleigh reached over to put a hand on his arm, reinforcing their connection. "What did the note say, Horatio?"

"It basically said that he's holding Steve without water until he dies of thirst. Not in those words, but that's what he meant." He looked from the screen to Calleigh. "I asked Alexx how long he could survive. She said he could die in three days." His fists tightened suddenly on air, and it slipped through his grasp and escaped, taunting him. "This is the second day, Calleigh, and we're getting nowhere."

"You and Tripp haven't found anything with the parolees?"

"We've talked to nine. One of them was actually making meth in his garage with the garage door open when we walked up." He gave her a hollow grin that almost immediately faded. "Probably at least half of them deserve to be back in jail on new charges, but I don't think any of them so far could have planned this. The intelligence behind it is missing." He glanced at his watch. "And I ought to be back out there working on more of them while Speed processes the new letter. I just needed to see you for a minute." He stood up. Calleigh stood up herself and caught him in a desperate hug, sharing his urgency, sharing the burden. He relaxed against her for a minute, then straightened up. "Thanks, Cal." His cell phone rang, and he pulled it out and snapped it open. "Horatio."

It was Speed, sounding almost excited. "H, I'm still working on that letter, but I just isolated one print from the envelope that doesn't belong to somebody in Narcotics or in the mail room. Craig Weston. He's a dispatcher."

"Nice work, Speed." Horatio ended the call, then immediately dialed. "Frank? We might finally have something useful."

(H/C)

Craig Weston finished routing an officer to a fight and carefully noted the call in his log. A hand like a vise suddenly seized his shoulder, spinning him around in his chair to face two blue lasers fixed on him with deadly aim. "Start talking, and start talking fast," Horatio demanded in a tone of fierce softness.

"What the . . . Horatio, what's wrong?" His eyes moved past him to Tripp for assistance. Tripp looked like he'd rather grab the other shoulder and help Horatio in pinning Weston to his computer screen.

"Where did you get the letter?"

"What letter?" The vise tightened on his shoulder. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The one addressed to Narcotics in block letters that you put in interdepartmental mail this morning."

"Oh, that letter. I found it."

"Try a better one," Tripp threatened, coming a half step closer.

"Really, I found it. I was just coming in this morning, and it was lying on the floor in the back of the elevator, like someone had dropped it. It didn't belong to anybody there; I asked around. No return address, but it was clearly labeled, so I picked it up and put it in the mail myself." Horatio, reluctantly starting to be convinced of his sincerity, loosened his grip.

"You didn't see who dropped it?"

"No, but you know what the elevator's like in the mornings, with everyone coming in at the same time. Hell, I've dropped things myself in crowded elevators and not noticed, and nobody else on board did, either."

Horatio's hand dropped helplessly away, releasing him. "That was the second letter from Steve Parker's captor."

Weston's eyes widened. "I'm sorry, Horatio. I didn't know."

Tripp smacked his hand down against a nearby file cabinet. "My fault. I had all the secretaries and receptionists informed about the details of the letter and the printing so they'd be on guard. Didn't send it to everybody. You don't have a front-line desk."

"I didn't ask you to notify everybody," Horatio said softly, looking down.

"We both should've thought of it, H. I'm the one who approved the memo."

Horatio looked back at Weston, and the lasers had reversed aim. His anger was now internally directed. "I'm sorry, Weston. If you find any more envelopes lying around addressed to Narcotics in block letters, bring them directly to CSI."

"I will," Weston assured him. "I want Steve to be found as much as anybody."

Horatio and Tripp headed back for the elevator. "You realize what this means, don't you, Frank?"

Tripp nodded. "We can't be sure that the one yesterday wasn't delivered the same way. He might not have come all the way to a desk." They entered the elevator, and Tripp pushed the button for his floor.

"Which means," Horatio said, "that everything we've been doing with the video tapes for the last day may be totally irrelevant."

"Don't know that, though. I'll get a message put out to everyone on weekends, see if anybody picked up an envelope to Narcotics any time Saturday night. That will take some time to find everybody who was here, though. I'll also have everybody clear down to the janitors notified to be watching for these. That'll fix the mistake on the first memo."

"It probably fixes it too late, though."

Tripp bumped him awkwardly on the shoulder with his hand as the elevator door opened. "I'll meet you in 30 minutes, and we'll go back out after the parolees. My mistake as much as yours, H."

The elevator doors slid closed behind him, and Horatio studied them for a moment before pushing his button. "I'm sure knowing that would mean a lot to Steve Parker right now."

(H/C)

Horatio sat in his office that night, running computer searches, trying once again to track down the missing parolees in any database. They had simply walked out the doors of the prison and vanished. All were wanted for parole violation for failure to report, but you had to find a man to arrest him.

Rosalind abruptly landed on his desk with a thump, stretching her arms toward him. "Dada!" Horatio stared at the apparition blankly. Maybe he was more tired than he thought. Rosalind scrambled across the desktop to him, cheerfully knocking papers askew in her journey, and attached herself to the front of his shirt. Horatio picked her up and raised his eyes to meet Calleigh's. "Sorry. I didn't hear you come in."

"I know." She refused to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, determined that this confrontation would not last long enough to need it. "It's time to go home, Horatio. Past time."

He looked at his watch. It was 7:30. "I can't, Cal. Steve's out there somewhere, and time's running out for him."

"So tell me, without looking, the exact details of the last search you ran." Horatio's eyes started to sidle toward the computer screen. "Without looking, Horatio. Name, database, information entered, results. Let's hear it."

He sighed. "I can tell you the results, at least. Nothing."

"You're too tired to be thinking straight, Horatio. You're likely to miss something, and that won't help Steve. You've got a few people on night shift still watching the tapes, and everyone on patrol is looking for Steve's car. If we get a break before tomorrow, you need to be ready to work it." She looked at him steadily. "You're just spinning your wheels up here right now. You sent everyone else home long since. Let's go home, Horatio."

"Home!" Rosalind said brightly, and Horatio gave her a tired grin. Calleigh waited. She knew from the slump of his shoulders that she had won, but he didn't know it yet, and she gave him time for the discovery. Finally, he stood up, switching the computer off one-handed while holding Rosalind with the other.

"Okay. But if we get anything new, I'm coming back in."

"Of course," Calleigh agreed. She tucked her arm through his free one, and they walked out of his office together.

(H/C)

The phone beat the alarm clock by an hour. "Horatio."

"Tripp. We've got Steve's car and the man who had it. Traffic patrol made the plate and stopped him. I'm at HQ."

"I'll be right there." He hung up the phone, switched on the light, and gave Calleigh a quick kiss as he climbed out of bed. "We have the car and driver."

"Go on," she said needlessly. He was dressed and out the front door in under five minutes. Calleigh got up herself much more slowly, wondering about Steve, hoping about the case, praying that he was still alive. This was the third day.

(H/C)

Carlos Jiminez couldn't remember being this frightened in his life. He'd had a few run-ins with the police, but not like this. Everybody there, from the detective to the redhead to the guards, wanted to pound him into a pancake, and it showed.

"Where did you get the car?" Tripp demanded, leaning over the table to get right into Carlos' face. Carlos shrank back, and Horatio, hovering behind him, pushed him firmly back forward. Carlos couldn't decide if the bull in front or the panther behind was more dangerous.

"I found it."

"Try again." Horatio pushed him clear into the edge of the table. Tripp's eyes were only inches away.

"I swear, I swear on my mother's grave. I found it. Right there in the alley, keys and all."

"So you just helped yourself," Horatio stated. "You expect us to believe that? You have a rap sheet a page long."

"I'm a thief. I'll admit it. I stole the car. But really, he shouldn't have left it there, keys right there in it. Too tempting, man. He was asking for it to be stolen. He could've at least locked the doors."

Horatio slammed him forward. The edge of the table was a knife across his chest, cutting into him. "That man was . . . is a police officer. If he was out of his car, he got out of it to help someone or to put away a worthless excuse for a person like you."

Carlos cringed. "I didn't know it was a cop's car. It wasn't marked. Think I'd be stupid enough to steal a cop's car? I never saw nobody, I'm telling you. Just the car."

Horatio released the pressure and walked around to join Tripp in a frontal assault. Carlos swallowed nervously. "Your rap sheet just went way beyond theft, Carlos. You're involved in the abduction of an officer. If he . . ." Horatio paused for a second, then continued with even more force. "If he dies, you're an accessory to murder."

"But I never even saw him! I just stole a car."

Horatio shook his head slowly. "You stole evidence, Carlos. If you aren't an accessory by conspiracy, you're an accessory after the fact, and you're going down for it."

Tripp leaned in closer again. "Name the alley. Lie to me, and I'll drive you out there myself, tied by chains to the back bumper."

Carlos shivered and named the address. Horatio and Tripp headed for the door, and Horatio turned back just before leaving. "If you're lying to me, I'll tie you by chains to my back bumper, too, and Tripp and I can race each other there." He whirled without waiting for a response and left.

Carlos was trembling. He looked at the two guards still in the room. "All I did was steal a car," he whined.

"Shut up," said the first guard. The second drew his night stick and ran it thoughtfully through his hand.

Carlos shut up.

(H/C)

Horatio entered his office about 1:00 with a cup of coffee and sat down, picking his way through the paperwork on his desk, sorting out any reports that had to deal with Steve's case. The team had spent the morning processing the alley, all except for Speed, who had been processing Steve's car. Horatio had left one other person working on tracking the missing parolees and one watching tapes, but they must have gone to lunch. They wouldn't have left without a report, positive or negative. He found the results and scanned them quickly. Nothing.

Speed slouched in. "H. Valera thought she saw you go up here." He sat down in front of the desk. "I've been over the car. Prints from everyone in the family there, along with Carlos and a few friends. They're both small time thieves, like he is. Steve kept it pretty clean. I don't think the perp was ever in it. Here are the names on Carlos' friends, though." He handed over his report.

Horatio sighed. "I don't think the perp was there, either. I think he lured Steve to the alley somehow, probably said there was someone hurt back there and asked him to bring the car. Steve would help anybody. Then, when Steve got out and went around the dumpster, the perp probably hit him on the head, then got his own car and just left Steve's sitting there in the alley. Eric found an oil leak. Might not be the right car, of course. Calleigh found a piece of wood that had a few hairs on it. I brought it back with me." He pulled out that evidence envelope and handed it over to Speed, who signed on the front. "Run DNA on the hairs. Susan gave us some of Steve's hairs for comparison if we needed his DNA. Try fingerprints, too, but it's obvious this perp wears gloves."

"Are Eric and Calleigh still working the scene?"

"Much as they can. It's been three days. Half of Miami could have been through there." Three days. Steve could be dying. Steve could already be dead.

"Lieutenant Caine?" A woman was standing uncertainly in the office door, holding an envelope. "I'm secretary in Narcotics during the week. We've got another one."

Horatio snapped on gloves and reached for it, handing her an evidence envelope from his desk at the same time. "Sign on the front, please." She signed it on the corner of his desk while he studied the envelope. "This one came through the U.S. mail. It's been stamped."

Speed peered at the postmark. "One of the main post offices. They have their own zip code."

The secretary shook her head helplessly. "I've been watching everywhere I walk for envelopes on the ground, and I'm afraid to take my eyes off my mail baskets. Everybody else I've talked to today has been watching too. I processed all the ID mail before I started on the U.S. mail, looking for another letter. And he starts mailing them instead. It's almost like he got that last memo."

Horatio shook his head. "It's Tuesday. He couldn't mail them to reach us Sunday or even Monday from the Post Office. The one Monday would have had to be mailed Saturday morning before he actually got Steve if he wanted to use the regular mail, and he wouldn't do that, just in case something went wrong. He'll probably use the Post Office from now on, except for Sundays." He realized a second after saying it that he had automatically just assigned a duration of several weeks to this case. "That is, until we catch him." He smiled at the secretary. "Thank you for your diligence. Please scan through the U.S. mail from now on as soon as you get it. It helps to get these as soon as possible. And even though he's switched to the Post Office, keep your eyes open."

"I will," she promised. She left the office, and Horatio removed the letter from the slit envelope. He stared at the page, and the block letters stared back, mocking him. 'Ever read the last act of Hamlet?'

"What's this one say?" Speed edged closer, and Horatio put the letter flat on his desk where they both could read it. "I don't get it. What happens in the last act of Hamlet?"

Horatio's throat was suddenly dry, and he took a sip of his coffee before reluctantly answering. "Basically, everybody dies."

Speed cringed. "You think he's going to go after everyone in Narcotics, one at a time?"

"I'm afraid he's at least planning it." Horatio's hand suddenly clenched on his mug. "Plans can fail, and I intend to make sure his do. Get that down to Trace right away, Speed. Run fingerprints, too. He may get careless once, and we're not going to."

"Right." Speed snapped on his own gloves and picked up the letter and envelope, starting for the door of the office.

Horatio swiveled his chair to face his computer and hit a button to wake it up. The screensaver faded into the prompt to log on, and he typed his name, then hesitated. "Except Horatio," he said very softly. "Horatio has to stand there helplessly and watch while everyone else dies around him."

Speed, halfway out the door, turned back. "What's that, H?"

"I was just thinking out loud. You know, that Hamlet reference is pretty culturally advanced for someone sent to prison on drug charges."

Speed nodded. "Probably Shakespeare's not on the top 10 list of books read in meth houses."

"Exactly. I'm going to dig into the background a bit more on these 32 people released from prison, see if any of them have ever had any recorded connection at all with the theater."

Speed was impressed. "Good thinking. We'll get him, H. Every note helps." He walked the other half of the way out the door and headed down the stairs.

Horatio stared at his computer, where the cursor still blinked politely, waiting for his password. He entered it. "Your notes," he said out loud to the perp, "are helping us find you. Did you hear that? They will, too. This game will end, and you will lose." But would Steve lose as well? How many more would have to follow? Reconnecting his mind to his fingers, he started the search.


	4. Caine Mutiny 4

"For now hath time made me his numbering clock;

My thoughts are minutes."

William Shakespeare, King Richard II

(H/C)

The headache had expanded to cover his body. Or maybe his head had just expanded to cover his body, floating dizzily above it like a balloon on a string. He didn't mind much, though. It let him escape, let him leave his shivering body and drift off a few peaceful feet. He wasn't as thirsty anymore. Maybe he could simply float out of this prison. If he floated up to the ceiling, would that door open from the inside to release him? If it didn't, could he float through it anyway?

Keep thinking. His mentor had taught him that. Always keep thinking.

Who was his mentor?

The shock of the thought sent him crashing back into his shivering body again. He could picture him. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a neatly-trimmed mustache. He could hear his voice exhorting them to keep thinking. He could picture his firm, confident stride. But he could not remember his name.

In desperation, he started calling the roll of his family and friends. Susan, his wife. He embraced the thought briefly, then moved on. His daughters, Diane and . . . A feeble half sob, half croak escaped through the tape. He couldn't remember their names. The faces were there, but he suddenly wasn't sure of any of the names beyond Susan. Was it Diane or Diana? And who was the second daughter?

His mind rammed against that wall until it fell back, exhausted, and then his head slowly expanded and floated up again, giving him a few peaceful feet of escape. Gradually, his prison retreated to a distance, the walls stretching, finally offering a way out. Susan. He held onto the one name he still knew and let himself glide away on it. He thought he heard the door opening back above his body, though he hadn't heard footsteps, but he couldn't open his eyes. He listened, or tried to, but there was no more voice. There was no more pain.

Still fastened to his wrist behind him, his watch had stopped.

(H/C)

Four days. Calleigh watched the video carefully, registering each detail on autopilot. Her mind was chasing itself in dark circles. It had been four days since Steve had been kidnapped. Was he still alive? From here, she knew every hour cut into his chances. Still, she absolutely refused to give up on him until she saw the dead body, partly due to her innate stubbornness, partly due to the strong bond among officers, partly due to empathy for his status as a hostage.

This case had an odd duality for her and even more, she knew, for Horatio. Everything they were doing to try to find Steve carried a ghostly whispering echo of last February, the most desperate week of their lives, when Stewart Otis was holding them hostage and planning to take Rosalind. The team had never given up, even when it looked more hopeless than this case, and in the end, they had come in time. Barely in time. She shuddered on that thought and firmly pushed it aside. No, they had come in time. Leave it there. The thought that had strengthened Horatio and Calleigh through the whole ordeal was knowing that the team was searching for them, as Steve must know now. Going through this case from the perspective of the hunters, not the hostage, was like standing behind a mirror, looking back through it somehow at herself standing on the other side, only the reflection trapped in the glass between was not her image but that of someone else. She didn't have to imagine Steve's thoughts; her own from the past would serve well enough. Horatio, too, was caught up in a mixture of empathy and memory, the elements inextricable, only with him even more than Calleigh, he blamed himself for letting something as personal as memory have any claim at all on him when someone else's fate was hanging in the balance.

Calleigh found her thoughts turning more and more to Susan. The only thing that had made that week survivable was that she and Horatio were in hell together. She couldn't imagine being left outside the situation, wondering, worrying, filling in an endless blank and fearing every hypothetical answer. Susan and the girls seemed to be holding up as well as could be expected, but Calleigh knew how fragile the front was. She had talked to Susan just last night. Horatio, too, had kept in touch regularly, trying to be honest but still optimistic.

Horatio. That, too, was a ghostly reminder of their own captivity – the gnawing, growing worry about Horatio. Once again, Calleigh was left watching but powerless to do anything to help him. He blamed himself for the lack of progress, she knew. If Steve died, Horatio would be crushed. Even more, he would feel guilty for surviving himself where someone else had not. That had been his specialty for too many years.

Her autopilot abruptly transmitted a signal to her distracted brain, and she snapped back to attention, staring at the screen. She rewound a few seconds and watched again as a man in a Marlins baseball cap and a leather jacket entered, asked the receptionist for something, then, as she turned away to a file cabinet, smoothly slid an envelope into her out basket. Calleigh froze the screen and marked the time. 10:15 p.m. Saturday. The first message had been delivered. She pulled out her cell phone.

"Horatio."

"I've got it. Delivery of the first envelope, 10:15 Saturday night."

"I'll be right there."

Calleigh watched the scene again twice while waiting. We should have just started with this tape, she thought. This was the last of the security tapes, of course. Eric was processing what little they had from the alley crime screen, while Speed was working on the envelopes and letters again.

Horatio swept into the room and stopped to hover behind her. "Let's see it." She replayed it. "Nice work, Cal. Okay, we need to get Tyler on this. That's got to be the captor himself; that whole message delivery is too smooth, too practiced for somebody he asked to do it for him as an innocent favor. I want anything that can be learned about him from the tape. Not that we can see much." He tilted his head as if that would help the view.

"He would be wearing a baseball cap," Calleigh sighed. "He's got the jacket collar turned up, too."

"And he's wearing gloves," Horatio continued. "That's another reason I think it's the perp himself. He looks like a walking disguise. He was planning to fool the cameras." His hands clenched on the back of Calleigh's chair. "He underestimated us, though. There's got to be something useful. I'll get Tyler." He started for the door of the video lab, then stopped as the Narcotics secretary came down the hall of CSI, envelope in hand. "Do we have another one?"

She was so pale that her lipstick looked like blood against her skin. She nodded, handing it to him. He snapped on gloves and took it. "I sorted out the U.S. mail this morning like you asked as soon as the postman came. This one is even worse."

Horatio picked up an empty evidence envelope from a nearby stack and handed it to her without instructions. She knew the drill by now. She signed it using the glass wall for a table as Horatio pulled out the note. Calleigh came up beside him to read it, and he slid over half a step to give her room in the doorway. They both stared at the note. 'The rest is silence.'

"Where have I heard that?" Calleigh asked, shivering slightly. The meaning was clear, even if she couldn't identify the quote.

"Hamlet's dying words," the secretary supplied. She shivered herself. "I saw Hamlet put on a month ago. I'll never forget that last scene. Just to think that somebody's trying to recreate it using officers makes me sick."

Horatio instantly snapped to attention. "Where did you see Hamlet put on a month ago?"

"At the University. It was the fall theater production."

"Thank you," he said, so sincere that she gave him an odd look. "I appreciate your efforts to get us this as soon as possible." She gave him a somber nod and headed back up the hall toward the elevator. Horatio turned to Calleigh. "None of those 32 parolees have any connection that we know of with the theater. I finished running those searches just before you called. But it's possible that the perp saw Hamlet recently. Anybody already plotting revenge who happened to see Hamlet would have a powerful reaction to it."

"Maybe he actually worked at the production, either an actor or behind the scenes," Calleigh suggested. "Maybe it isn't one of these 32. It could be revenge for a relative who's killed or still in prison."

"True," Horatio admitted. "Or it could be another grudge that we don't understand yet. Let's take a road trip, Cal, and talk to the theater department at the University. First, though, we need to get this to Speed and put Tyler to work on the video. Maybe we're finally getting real leads to work in this case."

(H/C)

Speed flattened the note on his table with the envelope above it and studied them. This time, knowing it had been through the Post Office, he put off running fingerprints on the envelope until last. That would be even worse than sorting out the MDPD mail room workers. He had run fingerprints on the note inside, coming up with only the secretary. He methodically ran through a list of mental checkpoints. The envelopes were all peel and seal variety, so there was no chance of DNA when the perp licked the flap. The envelopes and the paper were all standard, available by the thousands at Wal-Mart. The printing was the most odd thing about them, always perfectly regular block letters. The handwriting analyst had already concluded that they were written using a stencil. Any kind of analysis was almost impossible from that, though she did make an educated guess that it was a male. Speed started carefully going over the envelope and the letter for any trace, as he had done with the previous ones.

For the first time, something turned up under his light. There were several faint specks on the note and a few on the envelope. The stencil, he thought. The perp had something on his hands, and he probably picked up the stencil at some earlier point before putting on gloves for the actual writing of the note. Passive transfer. This hadn't been on any of the previous letters, so it must be something he had picked up yesterday before mailing this letter last night. Speed carefully collected a sample of the faint spots, then started the analysis. The spec machine whirred and clicked busily, then spit out its answer. Speed lived up to his nickname as he grabbed for his phone.

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh were returning from the University, armed with a playbill listing the cast and production crew of Hamlet last month. The director had been cooperative but adamant that no one would have been involved, these were all good kids, and they would be discrete in their inquiries, wouldn't they? The theater department had never had any crimes associated with it, and she didn't want to start now. Sensing that Horatio was about to explode, Calleigh had taken over then with a firm reminder of what was at stake here. Unfortunately, there was no way to completely track the audience. The play had run for four nights, and tickets had been available at the door. Some people had called ahead for reservations and picked up their tickets that night. A list of those names was provided, but the director estimated that most people seeing the play had bought their tickets at the theater that night.

The Hummer restlessly prowled back across Miami through the traffic, picking up on its driver's mood. Horatio drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as they stopped at a light. It wasn't a habit he usually had. Calleigh looked at the paperwork and names in her lap. "Maybe we have the name in here somewhere," she suggested brightly, trying to stay optimistic for him.

"Gives us more useless computer searches to run and visits to make, at least," he replied sharply. He gave her a look of apology a second later. "Sorry. I'm not annoyed with you."

"I know. It's just the case. It's okay, Handsome." She glanced at her watch as the traffic started back up. It was lunch time. She eyed Horatio's taut expression and decided to just pick up a sandwich for each of them from the break room machines. She didn't think this was the best time to suggest stopping for lunch.

The cell phone rang. "Horatio."

It was Speed. "H, the envelope and letter have traces of sap from the manchineel tree. He had that on his stencil this time. It's only found in Hell's Bay, so he had to be out there yesterday."

Horatio hit the lights and siren, and the drivers of the surrounding cars glared at him, wondering if it was just an excuse to get out of the traffic, before they started to edge over, gradually clearing a way for the Hummer. "I'm on my way out there. Contact Tripp, Rescue, the team, anybody else you can think of. Meet me there."

"Got it, H." Speed hung up.

"Where?" Calleigh asked.

"Hell's Bay." The Hummer accelerated into the opening traffic, and Calleigh was pressed back against her seat with the power.

(H/C)

There was only one road into Hell's Bay, and as Horatio spun the Hummer into it, they could hear sirens approaching. Calleigh twisted to look behind them and saw another CSI Hummer, two patrol cars, and an ambulance turning into the road behind them. The cavalry was arriving.

The Hummer attacked the bad road at a speed that would have been dangerous if Horatio hadn't been in perfect control of the vehicle. He was leaning forward as he tightly gripped the wheel, his eyes tracking the vegetation, and as the bay itself came into view, he slammed to a halt. He bolted out of his seat without bothering to close the door, racing around the Hummer to the drag marks he had seen. Calleigh had to fight her seatbelt for a minute; it surrendered just before she was about to take her pocketknife to it. The other vehicles screamed up behind them.

About five feet off the road, Steve Parker was tied to a tree. Horatio was already there, ripping the duct tape off, frantically feeling for a pulse, first in the wrist, then in the neck. He couldn't find one, but Steve still felt warm. Horatio yanked out his own pocketknife and quickly sawed through the ropes, and Steve instantly collapsed, falling forward across his friend. Horatio caught him and carried him back the few feet to the road, laying him down on the pavement. He once again frantically felt for a pulse. Steve was so warm, not even stiff; there had to be a pulse.

Strong but careful hands pulled him away. Tripp. "It's too late, Horatio." Horatio let himself be dragged off but only because the paramedics were moving into place.

"Pupils are fixed and dilated," one voice said. "He's gone." The brain was dead, even if by some miracle the heart and lungs could be restarted.

"Try anyway," Horatio snapped, but they were already automatically starting CPR, dutifully going through the motions, even if their postures screamed how hopeless this was. Calleigh took Horatio's other arm – Tripp still had one – and held it tightly as they watched in silence. She knew there was nothing she could have said.

The paramedics eventually sat back in defeat. The fact couldn't be denied any longer. The scene's jurisdiction passed from life to death, and the CSIs moved in.

Horatio walked over to the tree and studied the ropes scattered on the ground near it. "We need to mark our cuts," he said in a tightly-shuttered voice. "Maybe we can identify the tool marks from the cuts made by the killer. Mark the rope, please, Cal." She knelt and started the task, keeping one eye on her husband at the same time. Eric and Speed had started fanning out along the road, looking for any clue from the vehicle that had brought the body. Tripp was talking to another officer next to the patrol cars.

Alexx knelt next to the body, wishing for the thousandth time that her services could be used before death. Horatio walked across and stared down at Steve's pale, still face, the cheeks caved in, the skin shrunken, the only color in his face the tape marks across his dry, cracked lips. Alexx stopped her work and looked up at Horatio in sympathetic concern. "What do you think made those marks on his arms and chest, Alexx? A taser?"

"That would be my guess. It's too regular to be coincidence or random injury. I think he was hit on the side of the head, too; there's ecchymosis along the left parietal area. That's several days old, probably from the night he was taken. I'll know exactly at post, but I'd say it was definitely the lack of water that killed him. The torture and stress might have sped up the process, but they were secondary." Her own voice was tight with anger. This man she was examining had been a person, had had a family, a job, hobbies. She hated reducing a life into clinical terms, even while she knew it would help to catch the killer. "There's bruising and some burns around the wrists, too, much more recent than the head injury. That's from the rope."

"He was alive when he was tied up here, then."

She nodded slowly. "Still alive but probably too far gone for whatever they were using him for. He wasn't struggling; they just tied him that tightly. There are still a few fibers imbedded."

"He was still warm when we found him. What is the TOD, Alexx?"

She had deliberately put that off, already suspecting the answer and not wanting to make it official. She knew it would make things even harder for Horatio. "I haven't taken liver temp yet."

"Do it now." His tone was sympathetic but commanding. Alexx reluctantly pulled out the thermometer from her kit, made the incision, and then stared unwillingly at the answer. It confirmed her guess. "Alexx, when did he die?" Horatio insisted. There was an edge of annoyance under the words now. He knew she was holding out on him for his sake, and he resented anything being done for his sake when Steve Parker was the victim waiting for justice.

Alexx looked up with a world of regret in her dark eyes. "About 1:00 p.m."

Even though she stopped halfway, Horatio finished the math instantly. "Just 30 minutes before we got here." He abruptly turned away from the body. "Thank you, Alexx." The voice was a polite, fragile shell encasing torment. He walked away, heading up the road, his eyes fixed on the dirt, scanning for evidence but not seeing anything. The repeating chorus of failure overpowered his senses. 30 minutes. On an investigation that had taken days, he had failed his friend by a mere 30 minutes. Steve had still been alive when he was tied here, had hung on as long as he could for his friends. He had beaten the odds, by Alexx's range. It was his friends who had sealed his death by coming too late.

Savagely, Horatio kicked a large tree trunk as hard as he could, putting all his frustration into it, and jumped back with an involuntary gasp as sharp pain reverberated all the way through the plate and multiple screws in his left leg. He leaned against the tree, almost savoring the pain even while waiting for its echoes to die. He deserved it. He had thought he was well up the road from the knot of investigators, out of range of their attention, but somehow, suddenly, Calleigh was there beside him, reaching out. She gripped his arm with firm tenderness, her hands silently asking him to let her replace the tree as his means of support. "Horatio, are you all right?" He raised his head to look at her briefly, and his eyes were kaleidoscopes of pain. He saw no condemnation at all in hers, nothing but concern. Concern for him. But Steve Parker was the victim here.

Horatio straightened up, gently but firmly pulling back. "Fine," he said, his tone absolutely ending that topic. He leaned onto the leg, testing it, and it held. The sharpness was subsiding to a dull ache. Calleigh hesitated, unsure if it would be better for him to push him at the moment here at the breaking crime scene or not. More ashamed of the outburst itself than its being witnessed, he turned away from her and retreated into professionalism. "You need to finish those ropes. Check the tree bark, too. We might be able to get something from the tape, tool marks, at least. I'll work the road with Eric and Speed. We aren't going to miss anything on this scene." He walked back down the road, his eyes sweeping the landscape on all sides, and now he really was intently looking for evidence. Calleigh slowly followed him back to the main scene, and her eyes never left his tall, lonely figure. All the evidence she was concerned with at the moment was right in front of her.


	5. Caine Mutiny 5

Chapter 5 of the Caine Mutiny. Bonus chapter in honor of a rainy day that prevents outside work. This is it until the end of the week. Deb

(H/C)

"Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows."

William Shakespeare, King Richard the Second

(H/C)

The pallbearers approached with measured, solemn steps as the bagpipes played Amazing Grace, the flag-draped coffin the only color in a sea of black suits. Horatio stood next to Calleigh, eyes riveted to the coffin. A man he had called friend lay there because help had come 30 minutes too late. Calleigh shivered slightly as the wind moaned, and he automatically put an arm around her, squeezing her warmly into his side. She caught his hand where it came around her shoulder and traced the fingers with tender support, giving him her strength, telling him silently that it wasn't his fault, that it couldn't have been prevented. He heard but he did not believe.

The procession stopped in front of the seated family, the wife and two daughters. They had been crying up until this point, but tears suddenly stopped along with the funeral march. The pallbearers stood motionless, their burden suspended. Even the wind stilled its lament, and the only movement, the only sound was the rustle of hundreds of collars and suits as every head turned to look squarely at Horatio. Family, pallbearers, officers come to honor the dead. Everyone faced him in unison with accusing eyes – everyone except Calleigh. The funeral had been disrupted, the process halted, and somehow, it was his fault. He had failed in his responsibility. Horatio looked around for the undone task and suddenly realized that there was no grave. Instead, in the middle of the rectangle of unpeopled ground lay a waiting shovel.

He understood. Giving Calleigh an apologetic squeeze, he released her and stepped forward, picking up the shovel. All eyes tracked him silently. Horatio thrust the metal blade into the earth, and it bit cleanly, easily into the ground. He started to dig. He made faster progress than he had feared he would, but he was still keeping them all waiting. The patient pallbearers never put the casket down. Looking up from a rapidly enlarging hole, Horatio suddenly noticed that the end of the casket had a clock face on it, with a second hand that seemed to be sweeping around its circuit in double time. An instant later came the realization that this wasn't the second hand but the minute hand. The minutes were flying, with the hours chasing them frantically. Horatio doubled his efforts as time spiraled out of control and everyone waited for him to finish his task.

Suddenly, the blade of the shovel hit something harder than the loosely-packed earth. There was a coffin here already. He would have to move Steve's grave, but no, there were tombstones to each side. It had to be here, and he was keeping them waiting. He would have to move this coffin, push it to the side so they could finish the funeral, then rebury this poor soul in some unoccupied corner later after everyone had left. He hoisted the coffin, throwing all his effort behind it. He barely had the strength to lift it out of the grave, but no one came to help. The watchers were all attentive but silent, condemning him for the delay. His eyes frantically sought Calleigh, but she had left. Horatio finally heaved the coffin over the edge of the grave and for the first time noticed the brass nameplate on the side. Al Humphries. He shivered and mentally promised his friend peaceful rest again, just as soon as Horatio could manage it.

He turned back to the grave, but he hadn't progressed more than a few inches before he encountered another coffin. With growing dread, he lifted that one out, too, tracing the name on the side. Raymond Caine. Ray's coffin banged into Al's with a reverberating clank that echoed through the unnatural silence. The watchers did not react, just continued to wait, but their eyes never left him. Horatio resumed his task and quickly hit another coffin. He knew somehow, even before he lifted it far enough to read the name. Rosalind Caine. His mother. Next would be his father, and after that would come the victims, the countless ones he had only been able to avenge, not save. With weary resignation, he started digging again, finding the next coffin blocking the way. He bent to pick it up, and this time, the lid opened suddenly, and a fleshless hand reached out toward him, capturing him by the shoulder with skeletal claws, pulling him down.

(H/C)

Calleigh stood by the bed watching him for a few minutes, needing to wake him yet hating to. Horatio was asleep, an uneasy sleep, but it was at least sleep. Even this much had been hard to come by in the days since they had found the body. Horatio had been possessed with finding the killer, processing the evidence, gleaning all they could from the swamp, the ropes, and the body. Unfortunately, all they could glean wasn't adding up fast enough to suit him. The letters had continued, each a taunting reminder of Steve's death. The cast and crew of Hamlet checked out with nothing more than traffic violations. Calleigh understood the fierce drive to close the case – it was shared by every officer on the force. A strike at the police community was a strike at all of them. Even in the intensity of the case, though, Horatio was supportive of his team, and his concern and consideration for all of them made the increased work load a bit easier. Nothing would be all right again until this case was solved, but they were still a team, working it together.

It was the other signs that worried Calleigh more. Signs like how he had started timing himself at work, timing his rare breaks to the second, timing his meals, not compromising thoroughness on the job but trying to sacrifice as few seconds as possible away from the investigation. Signs like yesterday, when he was in the break room pouring a cup of coffee and the radio playing carols launched into "I'll Be Home for Christmas." Horatio hadn't just turned it off. He had jerked the plug out of the wall with such a vicious yank that his elbow slammed back into the radio, knocking it off the counter, and it hit the floor four feet away in a multi-stage clatter. The echo of the crash died along with every voice, leaving one piece rolling across the floor the only remaining sound in the stunned room. He had stared at the broken machine for a moment, looking startled himself. Calleigh hadn't been there, but Eric had, and he told her later how Horatio had studied the floor for several seconds, then calmly, courteously pulled out his wallet and walked over to Valera, whose radio it had been, handed her several bills and a one-word but sincere apology, then walked out of the room.

And those were just the days. They paled next to the nights.

Horatio shifted again, suddenly more restless, his fingers clutching at the covers. His head turned, and he muttered some weak, futile protest. Calleigh sighed and reached forward to grip his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Horatio."

He came bolt upright on the bed so quickly that it startled her, and both hands convulsively, painfully clutched the arm that held him as his wild eyes roamed the room and finally came to rest on her face. He gave a shuddering sigh and relaxed, his fingers releasing the painful grip but still holding her. Both of them started to breathe again. "Sorry, Cal. Did I hurt you?"

"No," she said, though she was pretty sure she would have bruises on her arm the next day. "You okay?"

"Fine," he replied. It was the same answer he had given, in the same tone, for days to everyone who asked him that question. His eyes went to the window, gauging the light, and he frowned slightly. "What time is it?"

"7:45."

That brought his feet over the side of the bed, landing with a determined thump on the floor. "We'll be late to CSI. What happened to the alarm clock? That's two hours lost."

"It doesn't matter, Horatio. The funeral is at 10:00 this morning, and there's no point in going to CSI before that. We wouldn't have time to do much."

"You turned off the clock."

"You've got plenty of time. I've got breakfast ready now, and then you can take a shower and get ready while I take Rosalind to daycare."

He was scrambling into clothes as she spoke. "Where is she?"

"In the living room, watching the birds. Come on, Horatio, let's eat."

They headed together down the hall to the living room, where Rosalind in her high chair was parked in front of the huge sliding glass doors, watching the morning ballet outside. She never got tired of it. She looked around cheerfully as they entered the room. "Dada!"

He scooped her out of the chair, hugging her. "Good morning, Angel."

Rosalind hugged him back, then pointed, making sure she had his attention. "Birds."

"I see them. Sea gulls, actually. Can you say that?"

She tilted her head as she considered, then dismissed it. "Birds." Horatio laughed, and Calleigh, putting plates on the table, wondered if there was any way for him to conduct this investigation with Rosalind accompanying him 24/7. Rosalind certainly wouldn't mind, and Horatio might save himself an ulcer that way. Of course, he probably couldn't work as efficiently with her attached. Analysis of the evidence really required both hands. Calleigh shook her head sadly, discarding the idea.

"Put her back in her chair, Horatio. Let's eat."

He put Rosalind back in her high chair, faking it two times and pulling her back out at the last moment before he actually let go. She extended her arms toward him with a wide smile. "More!"

"Not right now," Calleigh said firmly, inserting herself between them. "Breakfast is ready." She pulled the high chair over beside her own place and sat down, fishing up a bite for Rosalind from her bowl with one hand while getting one for herself from the plate with the other. Her hands knew the routine, and her eyes left them to it and followed Horatio. He dropped into the chair across the table, picked up his fork, and then automatically looked at his watch, marking the exact time, and started eating twice as fast as he would have a few days ago. Breakfast was concluded in silence.

(H/C)

The pallbearers approached with measured, solemn steps as the bagpipes played Amazing Grace, the flag-draped coffin the only color in a sea of black suits. Calleigh shivered slightly as the wind moaned, and Horatio automatically put an arm around her, squeezing her warmly into his side. She caught his hand where it came around her shoulder and traced the fingers with tender support, giving him her strength, telling him silently that it wasn't his fault, that it couldn't have been prevented. He heard but he did not believe. She took her eyes off the family long enough to look up at him and was surprised to find him neither looking at the casket nor the family. He was staring at the waiting grave. The pale, strained, tight lines of his face frightened her, and she squeezed his hand, trying to break through his courteous wall and support him in whatever he was seeing there. His eyes flickered to hers briefly, answering the silent question in the same way he had answered all the spoken ones. He was fine. He looked toward the family, visibly shaking off his own thoughts and feelings to focus on them.

The coffin stopped, and the bagpipes stilled. The minister opened the Bible and looked at the family with gentle compassion. "The apostle Paul, knowing that he was about to be executed, wrote a farewell to his young friend Timothy, saying 'I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth, there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness.' Our dear friend Steve Parker fought the good fight every day in the streets of Miami to make the city a better place. He succeeded, serving with honor and diligence. No one can tell how many lives were saved through his efforts. Great is his reward in heaven. By his city, by his church, by his friends, and especially by his family, he will be missed." He closed the Bible and stepped forward, speaking privately to the family, too low for anyone else to hear. He took the widow's hand gently, and she nodded to him and replied. As he stepped back, her gaze fell to her wedding band, and the fingers of her other hand caressed it sadly, fondly.

The flag was removed, folded with reverent precision, and presented to her. She hugged it tightly, her tear-streaked face fixed on the casket, as the shots rang out across the cemetery, seven riflemen firing three times, the traditional military salute to the dead. Everyone paused then, waiting. The family would decide when they were ready to leave. After a few minutes, the widow stood up, and the tears suddenly came crashing through the dam as she laid her cheek against the coffin. Her daughters on either side, crying themselves, clung to her. The hundreds of onlookers stood motionless, allowing the family the semblance of privacy for this final goodbye. At last, the widow straightened up. She kissed her hand and laid it on top of the coffin, and her lips moved silently, addressing the three familiar words physically to him for the last time. Flanked by her daughters, she turned away, starting for the waiting black limousine, forcing herself not to look back.

The crowd began to disperse, some of them going to the casket themselves, some to their own cars, some following the family. Horatio was still a handsome statue, his eyes fixed on the casket, but he did not go to it. Calleigh gave him a minute, then reached up and touched his face lightly. He had been staring at the end of the casket, not the length of it, and now he looked down at her as if surprised that she hadn't left without him. "Let's go, Horatio. Do you want to talk to Susan?"

"I need to," he replied. He gave one last look at the casket as they started to walk away, but there was no clock face there. He hadn't really expected one. For Steve Parker, clocks no longer had meaning, because help had come for him 30 minutes too late.

(H/C)

The annual Christmas party for the Miami-Dade PD was noticeably subdued. They had considered not having it at all, but Susan Parker had insisted, though she didn't attend herself. She had met her husband there when he was a rookie on the force and she had come as another man's date. Since then, it had been a highlight of each year for them, and she wouldn't hear of canceling it, asking instead that they hold it in his memory. No one could refuse that request. So the party went on with the usual conversation, catching up with spouses and children, one of the few times each year that the entire extended MDPD family came together. Everyone was quieter than usual, though, and in the middle of conversation, voices would suddenly trail off and eyes would track to the black-draped portrait set up at the end of the room.

Horatio hadn't wanted to come at all. By his compulsive figuring, the party was a minimum of three hours away from the investigation. In the four days since Steve's funeral, they had made scant progress, but he knew the answer was there somewhere. He just hadn't looked hard enough yet. Calleigh returned to CSI after picking up Rosalind from daycare to find him, as expected, still at his desk, and only the reminder of Susan's specific request was enough to pry him away from the case and downtown to the reserved banquet room at the hotel. He was more subdued than most people there, even, but he was present.

Calleigh slipped away from him at one point to refill their punch glasses and encountered Alexx beside the table, watching Horatio with concern. "He isn't dealing with this well at all," the ME stated as Calleigh refilled their glasses with the dipper.

"Tell me about it. I'm really worried about him, Alexx, but anytime I try to talk to him, he just says that . . ."

"He's fine," Alexx completed for her. "He's given me the same line. Is he sleeping at all?"

"Not well. He won't tell me what he dreams about, but he doesn't even want to go to sleep anymore. He fights it off as long as he can. At least he's still eating a little, but he times himself on it. That 30 minutes just haunts him, Alexx."

"He couldn't have done any more than he did," Alexx said.

"I know, but he keeps trying to recapture it. I don't know what to do except just be there for him."

"What he really needs," Alexx said, "is to solve this case."

"I wish we could. It isn't going anywhere fast, though. We haven't found that big break yet." Calleigh stared across the crowded room, watching her husband worriedly. He was talking to an old friend of both his and Raymond's, Bill Weaver, and the topic was clearly the golden-haired child who was attached to his hip. Bill reached out to run one hand through her silky hair, and Rosalind eyed him with cool interest. Horatio stroked her hair himself, the pride slicing momentarily through the shadow over him like a ray of sunlight peeping through clouds. "Thank God for Rosalind," Calleigh said.

"She still reaches him. I really think you still reach him yourself, honey. He'll talk to you eventually if you just stay open. You've got him spoiled, you know. He doesn't want to go through things alone anymore." Alexx studied Rosalind. "Look at that girl. I swear, she knows something's wrong with him." Rosalind hadn't unlatched herself from Horatio all evening. She was an incurable people watcher normally, and the world always held her interest. With strangers, she was reserved, though not shy, watching people from a polite distance. Tonight, though, her eyes were on her father more than the others, even in this fascinating crowd.

Calleigh nodded. "He's trying not to be any different with her, but she senses it. She's so much like him it's uncanny, Alexx." She suddenly remembered the drinks. "I'd better get back over there." She started to walk away, then hesitated. "One question, Alexx. What would you do with him, if you were me?"

Alexx gave her a warm smile. "Exactly what you're doing. Keep being there for him, and don't let him forget it. He will talk to you eventually." Her eyes returned to Horatio's face, and the smile died in concern. "I hope we solve this case quickly, though. And not just for Susan."

"Me, too," Calleigh agreed. For her, this investigation was definitely as much for Horatio as for Susan or Steve at this point. She wondered briefly as she crossed the room whether that was wrong of her, and then she decided that she didn't care.

(H/C)

Rosalind had managed to stay awake through the party with progressive effort, but she was sound asleep in her car seat before they had driven a block. When they got home, Calleigh carried her sleeping daughter up the sidewalk as Horatio, carrying her purse and the diaper bag, unlocked the door. She went straight back to the nursery, and Rosalind never stirred as Calleigh put her in her sleeper, then tucked her into the crib, pulling the blanket up snugly. Calleigh kissed her lightly on the forehead, then switched out the light as she left the room.

Horatio was standing motionless in the living room, staring out the glass doors toward the beach, though there was nothing to see at this hour. Calleigh came up behind him, wrapping both arms around him and pulling him tightly against her. "It wasn't your fault," she reiterated. She had lost count of the times she and others had told him that in the last week, but the words always bounced off his shell and fell powerless to the floor, never reaching inside him.

He pulled away from her and started a restless circuit of the large room. "Just 30 minutes, Cal. That search took days. There had to be 30 minutes there somewhere."

Calleigh forced herself to stand still and wait for him to return to her. At least he was talking this time instead of evading. He usually just replied, "I know," in a tone that proclaimed he knew nothing of the kind. "Horatio, has it occurred to you that Steve crossed the point of no return well before his death? If we'd gotten there 35 minutes earlier, the only difference would have been that we would have seen him die."

His pacing stalled in thought. "Actually, I hadn't thought of that. You're right." Calleigh gave a sigh of relief, and it died halfway as he continued. "We needed to cut off a lot more than 30 minutes. Couple of hours, at least." The circular pacing resumed.

"Do you remember Chris Harwood?"

"Of course. Our sniper. What does he have to do with this?"

"Speed told me once something you said on that investigation. He was wondering how long it would take to catch that guy, and you said that you didn't know, but if he could make us change the way we worked, it would take longer. We can't get too hurried on this job, Horatio."

He stopped in front of her. "I know that, Calleigh. Of course we can't rush the work. We'd miss too many things. But there were minutes here and there that weren't spent with the evidence. They would have added up."

"Horatio, you aren't a machine; you can't run at 100 for days with no break. You would have worked a lot less efficiently if you hadn't given yourself a little time here and there. Working into collapse and having to go to the hospital wouldn't help anything. We would have been a lot later than 30 minutes that way." She reached out slowly enough that he could still retreat if he wasn't ready to be held, but he stood, and she gripped both of his arms. "Look at it this way. You're focusing just on what you did, but what about us? What about the team? Do you think we all should have eaten twice as fast and taken half the breaks? We all could have slept only four hours a night, or even two. Maybe it was our fault for slacking off. Think how many investigations we'd close faster if we just never stopped working."

"No, that's ridiculous," he protested, then realized a second later that he was trapped.

"Exactly. And it's ridiculous for you to punish yourself. You did your best. We all did, Horatio. The fact that he died is due to the criminals, not us."

His thoughts switched to the criminals. "I will get them, Cal," he vowed, a dangerous edge in his tone, like light running along the barrel of a gun. "Miami isn't large enough to hide them from CSI."

"I believe you. But trying to eat in three minutes per meal won't help you get there. Okay?"

He considered it, logic wrestling with guilt. Calleigh closed the remaining distance between them and pulled him tightly against her, hugging him fiercely. He slowly responded, his own arms tightening, and they simply held each other for countless minutes. "I'm sorry, Cal," he said finally. "I know it's been hard on you, too."

She hit him without ending the hug, smacking him sharply on the back. "Shut up, Horatio. You've been nothing but supportive to the whole team the last few days. It's just yourself you beat up on."

"I broke Valera's radio."

"That doesn't count. It's not a person."

He pulled her even closer, burying his face in her hair. "I just wish we could have saved him, Calleigh."

"So do I. We couldn't this time." She ran her hands in soothing circles over his back, feeling the knotted muscles. She pushed away from him suddenly. "Here, lie down on the couch. These poor shoulders of yours are going to break if they don't relax soon." He hesitated, and she took his hand and dragged him over. "Lie down, Horatio," she insisted. He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it without speaking and lay down obediently on the couch on his stomach. Calleigh sat on the edge and started meticulously, gently untying the knots. It seemed to take forever, and her own hands were cramping up by the end of it. "That better?"

"Mmm hmm," he replied distantly.

Calleigh ran her hands over his back, no longer massaging, just stroking him soothingly. Finally, she sat down on the end of the couch. "Roll over on your back, Horatio." As he obeyed, she picked up his head and placed it in her lap, smoothing the sleek hair away from his face.

"We can't stay here," he protested, half opening his eyes.

"Why not? It's our house."

He tried to sit up, and she wouldn't let him. "You need to get to bed," he stated. "This day's gone on long enough, and you've been working hard yourself."

"Not just yet, Horatio. I'm not that tired yet. Let's just stay here for a bit." Actually, she realized that he would still recoil from the idea of going to sleep. If they went to bed now, the nightmares would be a self-fulfilling prophecy, but if she could coax him into sleep here on the couch, where it wasn't official, maybe they could manage to sneak past the waiting dreams and grant him some much-needed rest. She massaged his temples, carefully rubbing in circles, trying to erase the stress lines, gently tracing the long, faded scar on the right. He let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes again.

"We'll only stay here for a little while, though. You need to get some rest."

"I will," she promised. He relaxed then, and gradually, under her touch, he fell sound asleep for the first time in days. Calleigh sat there memorizing his face again, tracing every line with the feather-light touch of her fingers. Deep, even, untroubled breaths. That was what he ought to be counting if he really wanted to work more efficiently. One. Two. She started counting them herself, her own eyes slowly drifting shut with the hypnotic recitation.

She had just reached 100 when a sharp knock sounded on the door, and Calleigh jumped, startled back from the very edge of sleep. She thought longingly of her gun, but she didn't have it within reach. One shot, and whoever was outside at this hour would leave them alone. Of course, a shot would certainly wake Horatio up. Calleigh edged out from under him, guiding his head carefully to the cushions. The knock came again, insistent. Horatio shifted slightly but did not wake up. Calleigh hit her feet and raced on tip toe across to the door, opening it and staring at . . . her mother.

"Calleigh! So nice to see you again. Where's Horatio? And what about that granddaughter of mine. Oh, I just can't wait to see her!" She bustled in accompanied by a clatter of luggage.

Calleigh urgently held up one finger to her lips. "Shhhh. Quiet, Mother," she whispered.

"Rosalind's already asleep, is she? Well, it doesn't matter. Sometimes, you have to wake them up; you can't always be tiptoeing around, Calleigh. I'm certainly not waiting until morning to see my granddaughter. She can get back to sleep easily enough. Let's see, almost 10 months old now, right?"

Calleigh switched weapons mentally from a gun to a gag. No, she switched back to the gun as Horatio sat up on the couch and stared at them blankly. Her mother caught the movement.

"Oh, there you are, Horatio. How's my favorite son-in-law?" Her hug was more like an assault, dragging him off the couch, taking him captive. Horatio, who was her only son-in-law, regained his courtesy a lot faster than Calleigh did.

"Jean, nice to see you. We didn't expect you for another week, though. Did we write the date down wrong?"

"No, no, I just decided I'd come early to surprise you."

"It worked," Calleigh muttered.

Jean released Horatio finally. "Get the rest of my luggage in, will you, Horatio? Now, the nursery is down here, right? Rosalind! Where's my little girl?" She bustled down the hall.

Horatio and Calleigh looked at each other. "Wake me up, Cal," Horatio asked hopefully.

"Sorry, you're already awake."

"I was afraid of that."

Jean's voice floated back down the hall. "Rosalind! There's my itsy-bitsy baby-wabe. Come to Memaw! Merry Christmas, everybody! Isn't it so nice for the family to all be together?"

Rosalind began to cry, and Calleigh and Horatio considered it. Resigned, they started down the hall to rescue their daughter. Behind them in the living room, the clock struck midnight.


	6. Caine Mutiny 6

Here's chapter 6 of the Caine Mutiny. Disclaimer: This chapter was typed down after taking pain pills and while arbitrating between two feuding cats on the subject of who would be allowed to sit in my lap while I typed. Sabra won, because Sabra always wins at everything, but Calleigh is a determined little thing who thinks the fact that Sabra always wins is unfair, so there was a fierce battle first. I apologize for any errors, but cut me a bit of slack today. Deb

(H/C)

"Data! Data! Data! I can't make bricks without clay."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches"

(H/C)

The next morning, Calleigh came back out to the Hummer after taking Rosalind into daycare. Rosalind was usually quite sunny and even-tempered around people she knew, but she was cranky this morning after last night. She had company, Calleigh thought sourly. At least Rosalind could catch up with some nice naps today. Jean, the cause of the disruption, had still been snoring peacefully when the others left. They hadn't woken her up for breakfast. The revenge wasn't worth the company. Maybe they could take this day back for a refund and start over. Make that this whole two weeks, just restarting the case. Why did her mother have to come early with everything else they had to deal with at the moment? Maybe they could move Jean to a hotel. Maybe they could move themselves to a hotel. Calleigh climbed into the passenger's seat and slammed the door much harder than necessary. Horatio had been staring into space, clenching the steering wheel like he wanted to arrest it and sentence it to life in prison, and he jumped as the door closed. "Sorry," she said.

He smiled faintly across at her. "I feel the same way sometimes."

"You don't actually slam the door, though."

"Believe it or not, I have slammed a few in my life." The light tone was too fragile, too superficial to be maintained. He sighed as the Hummer pulled out of the parking lot. "Cal, what are we going to do about your mother?"

"She'll just have to understand that we have to work."

"I mean about Rosalind. We aren't leaving Rosalind alone with her, and you know that's going to come up at some point."

Calleigh chewed her lip slightly in thought. "I know. I agree, but I haven't had any brainstorms yet. Rosalind having to get to know her is bad enough."

"I wish I could spare her from all of it, but Jean is our family, after all."

Calleigh smiled suddenly at that 'our.' "Are you sure getting involved with me was worth this?"

"Best bargain I've ever made." His velvet voice almost had its old relaxed tone there. Calleigh studied him, wishing the moment could be extended. Her mother had been full of questions, wanting an update on everything and everyone for the entire year, and it had been well after 2:00 before Calleigh and Horatio could escape. Of course, all of Calleigh's work at relaxing him was wasted by that point, and he spent the few hours they had before the clock went off in uneasy dreams, not rest.

Horatio felt her gaze and looked over at her briefly. "You look tired."

She didn't return the comment, not wanting to hear once again that he was fine. She at least had gotten some sleep worth having, between the highlights of his nightmares. "Last night wasn't worth much. Horatio, what were you dreaming about last night?" There, he couldn't possibly answer that question with fine. She was desperate to establish some connection with him in this, to provide some support.

Horatio instantly analyzed each half of her remark, putting two and two together and unfortunately coming up with five. "I'm sorry, Cal. I didn't realize I was disturbing you. You should have said something before this. I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

Calleigh felt like hitting either him for his nature or herself for not realizing how he would take that remark, but she forced her tone into easy humor instead. "I don't think that's a good idea, Handsome. The couch is pretty small for both of us." His lips half quirked at the corners, though his eyes stayed on the road. "You weren't disturbing me, Horatio. I'm tired because of my mother, not you. I'd just like to share what you're going through. All of it."

His hands tightened even more on the wheel, and he didn't respond. The lines of his body were a study in tension. His breathing was even more rapid now. Studying him, Calleigh abruptly realized that staying on this subject was forcing him to relive whatever it was. Experiencing the dreams at night was bad enough, but she suddenly wondered if they were creeping into his daytime thoughts as well. She knew how images could cross from sleep into wakening, especially with Horatio. He'd had almost 30 lonely years of practice at it. Maybe his reluctance to describe the nightmares in detail was an effort to spare himself as well as her. Changing tactics suddenly, she reached across and silently ran her hand up and down his upper arm, a wordless reminder of her presence. He turned his head to meet a look in which all annoyance had faded to anxious love and unquestioning support. He gave her a smile of apologetic gratitude. "I really don't want to talk about it, Calleigh."

"All right. I won't ask you again. Just don't forget that I'm here."

A fault line cracked his rich voice for a second, hinting briefly at the emotional earthquake beneath the surface. "I know. Believe me, I know. I couldn't deal with this case alone. You do help, Cal, just by being there and being yourself. I haven't forgotten you."

She gave up wishing she could help more and accepted it for the moment. "Okay. If you need to talk to somebody, though, I won't be hard to find. Just look within two feet of you, if not closer."

He smiled again, a stronger smile than the last one. "Trust me, you're impossible to overlook." His hand came out and touched hers briefly, a world of meaning in the fingertips. He had relaxed a bit now that she had backed off the subject, though he still looked stressed, as well as like he hadn't really slept in over a week. Calleigh was about to start some trivial conversation on Rosalind when she realized that there wasn't time. Ahead of them, the CSI building sprang out of the urban tangle of Miami. Another long day of the manhunt was beginning.

(H/C)

Horatio sat in his office going over what little they had for the hundredth time. He hated sitting in his office instead of being out in the field or down in the lab. To him, the office meant only two things, long-shot computer searches out of pure desperation or paperwork, and at the moment, he would have welcomed the paperwork.

He reread Tyler's report on the video. The perp was apparently right-handed, since he had used that hand reaching across his body to slip the letter into the out basket to his left. He was probably between five feet ten and six feet one. He seemed to have dark hair, although very little of it was visible beneath the ball cap. He was probably average build, although wearing a leather jacket that was too large distorted that assessment. Horatio once again added those elements into the database of their 32 parolees and got possible matches on 20 of them, including two of the missing four. Expanding the window of release to two years, there were 73 candidates with matches on 51. If he included the people sentenced for lesser crimes who might have a grudge out of all proportion to their penalty against Steve Parker and Narcotics, the number jumped to 226, with 149 matching. He had been doing this for days, then going out with Tripp to interview the ones they could catch. It had netted them nine arrests on new drug charges. Nothing more.

The secretary from Narcotics arrived with his daily special delivery from the morning mail. She didn't even open the killer's communications herself anymore. The lettering made them easily identifiable without it. Horatio accepted the envelope and handed her an evidence envelope. She signed across the front. "Maybe I should just keep a few of these at my desk, Lieutenant," she suggested.

Horatio's gloved fingers tightened on his letter. "This case isn't going to last long enough to justify it," he insisted. The secretary glanced at him uneasily as she handed back the evidence envelope. She had never known anyone who could look so dangerous and still keep it perfectly compartmentalized. She wasn't frightened of him for herself, but it still commanded respect. Horatio noticed the uneasiness and misread it. He gave her an attempted smile, trying to be reassuring. "Thank you."

She nodded back. "No problem, sir. You're right. We'll have him any day now." She really believed it with this man on the case. Wherever he was, the killer should be shaking in his shoes. She turned and left Horatio to it, not waiting to see the letter. She had seen too many.

Horatio studied the envelope carefully. The same as always. He slit the edge and withdrew the message. Four words, laughing at him from the page. 'Better luck next time.'

His hands clenched until he was afraid he would tear it, destroying evidence. He put the letter down on his desk then and found himself staring at his fingers as he released the paper. He didn't remember killing Stewart Otis, due to his physical condition at the time, but suddenly, he was seized with a longing to do on this case exactly what he was told he had done, clamp down on the scrawny criminal neck, shutting off the blood supply to a diseased brain, permanently ridding humanity of one of its cancers. He studied the hands that had done it, and they flexed eagerly, reaching for air. His eyes went past them to the nameplate at the edge of the desk, and he turned it around to read it, reminding himself of his position. Lieutenant Horatio Caine. There were rules and procedure that must be followed, even with this one, when they caught him. Of course, they had to catch him first.

But he wished suddenly that he remembered killing Otis. He wanted to know firsthand if he had acted purely out of necessity, had only been fighting for Calleigh and Rosalind with no options left, or if some small part of his soul buried deeply within had privately enjoyed it. Calleigh could fill in the gaps in his memories for the last few days of their captivity, but she could never answer that one for him.

Firmly gathering his thoughts and suppressing his feelings, he stood, turned the nameplate back around neatly into its appointed place, picked up the letter, and headed for the lab.

(H/C)

The man stopped at the front desk in the homicide division. The receptionist looked up. "May I help you?"

"I need to see someone about that case where the officer was killed. I might have some information for you."

She studied him. People came in all the time to confess to crimes, a few of them even legitimately, but he looked neither criminal nor crazy. Probably an informant, like he said. She hoped he was a useful one. They could use it on this case. "Sit down over there for a minute. Someone will be right with you."

The man sat down. Not five minutes later, a large-framed man arrived. "Detective Tripp. You are?"

"Joshua Sampson. I'm a wildlife photographer."

Tripp sized him up. "How do you think you can help me, Mr. Sampson?"

"The newspaper says the officer was found on Wednesday afternoon in Hell's Bay. I was in Hell's Bay early Wednesday morning."

Tripp's interest jumped from polite to intense. "And?"

"There was nothing there that I saw. I don't think the man was there yet. I would have noticed, unless he was really hidden."

Tripp shook his head. "About five feet off the road, right by the bay."

"I went right up to the bay. I wanted to get sunrise pictures, hopefully with some local wildlife in the shot. I never saw anybody. I read, though, that you were looking for an SUV, maybe an Explorer, that had been there recently. I have an Explorer."

"And why are you just telling us this after all these days?"

"I didn't know. I left Wednesday at noon to go to a conference in New York. I just got back last night and was catching up on papers this morning."

Tripp accepted it. "You mind if we have some people look at your vehicle? To rule it out, of course." And to double check the story, but Tripp believed him.

"Not at all. Anything I can do to help. It's parked out front of the building." He handed Tripp the keys, and Tripp seized them one-handed, dialing his cell phone with the other.

(H/C)

Calleigh closed the rear hatch of the Explorer and walked around the side to where Horatio was standing, hands on hips, just studying the vehicle as if his eyes might pick up something that processing hadn't. "Nothing at all to indicate a body. No dirt to match the dirt on the drag marks on Steve's clothing. No hairs. Nothing."

"Mmm," he replied thoughtfully. "Story of this case." His eyes sharpened up. "So far, that is."

"It does explain the irregular and doubled tracks. We thought there were multiple trips in, but it must have been two Explorers, both with almost new tires. The killer had to be driving one, too. Nobody is going to carry a body into Hell's Bay, and we didn't find any evidence on the dock that he came in by water."

"He probably drove one that day, at least," Horatio said. "We've already checked with all the car rental companies. He must have borrowed one from a friend. I'd think he might have wanted a different car than his usual, just in case it was seen. We've only got two personal hits on Explorers with the 32 parolees, and both of those vehicles check out clean. This gives us a better timeline, too. Sampson left Hell's Bay about 7:00. The killer was scouting there Tuesday afternoon, which is when he picked up the tree sap before mailing the letter on the way back. I hate to ask it, Cal, but can you go over those tracks one more time? We've got the killer coming in Tuesday, Sampson Wednesday morning, then the killer later Wednesday morning. Maybe now that you have these tires to compare to, you can isolate the others and find some difference that would help us." He came to attention as Speed entered the processing garage. "Speed, what have you got?"

Speed reluctantly faced him. He hated to even call this a report, but he had to make it. "I found something else on passive transfer from the stencil, H." He hurried on before Horatio could start getting hopeful. "Three Musketeers ingredients. The killer eats Three Musketeers bars. Like probably a few million other people in Florida."

Horatio tried not to look disappointed. He had to keep spirits up with the team. "Nice work, Speed. Every little bit helps." In theory, anyway.

"Look at it this way, H. This is the second time we've gotten something from the stencil. This guy is starting to make a few mistakes."

Horatio looked back past them toward the door, toward the city. "He already made his biggest one."

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh arrived home that night with Rosalind to find Jean refreshed after sleeping in and ready for conversation. She carried most of the burden at the meal, although she didn't notice it. Horatio stared at his plate, having finished first, Rosalind stared at Horatio, and Calleigh tried not to watch her husband too obviously. Jean prattled happily on, oblivious to the atmosphere.

After the meal, Jean meandered around the living room, studying the pictures and commenting on her own family members, many of her comments rooted in her imagination, not reality. She paused at the piano and pulled the bench back, sitting down. "Did you know I used to take piano lessons when I was a kid? I was even in a few recitals. Tried to get Calleigh interested in it, but she was always more interested in the boys, you know." Calleigh shook her head silently, never having had piano lessons or heard her mother play, and Horatio gave her a sympathetic smile. Jean ran a cumbersome scale up the keys. "I was fiddling around with this thing earlier today while you were at work. I even remember a couple of things. Amazing how the mind holds onto little bits." She started playing Chopsticks, not even playing it well.

Horatio looked absolutely pained, but he forced himself not to say anything. His mother's piano had probably never been insulted with Chopsticks in its existence before today, but he couldn't keep Jean away from it, especially while they were at work. Rosalind, in Horatio's lap, cocked her head, staring at the instrument. "Pano?" she asked, puzzled. It was as close as she could come to the word piano.

"Sorry, Angel," Horatio said softly, answering the meaning, not the word.

Jean turned around on the bench to face her granddaughter. "That's right. It's a piano. Piano." She dragged out the three syllables, almost making them five. "Such a smart girl, you are. You like it when Memaw plays for you, don't you? Come here." She climbed off the bench and went over to pick up Rosalind, who squealed and clung more tightly to Horatio.

Horatio took pity on her. "Actually, Jean, it's just about bedtime for her. I'd better get her to sleep. She was up late last night." He stood and headed back for the nursery, and Calleigh launched into what she knew would be a futile protest.

"Mother, that piano is very special to Horatio. It's a memento. Please don't make a toy out of it."

Jean gave her a look of wounded confusion. "I'm not making a toy out of it. Pianos are meant to be played. And I did take lessons once." She turned back and launched into Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, gradually starting to sing along with it, ignoring the missed notes sprinkled liberally throughout.

Calleigh sighed and came to her feet. "Mother, would you like a glass of wine? I think sharing a bottle would be the perfect end to this day." That much was true. It was wrong of her, she knew, but she suddenly didn't care. Once her mother started drinking, she would not stop, but Calleigh knew that they would be up talking until 2:00. otherwise, just like last night. Her mother had slept late this morning and wasn't tired yet, and since she wasn't, it never occurred to her that others might be. Horatio looked like death warmed over, and he would never be able to get any rest while her mother was awake. Calleigh unlocked the liquor cabinet – many things in the house now had locks because of Rosalind – and selected a bottle.

"What a wonderful idea," Jean stated. "Just a nice family evening together." She left the piano and came back to the couch where Horatio had been sitting. Calleigh brought the bottle with three glasses back to the coffee table and poured them each a drink, setting Horatio's to one side. She started sipping her own, and her mother drank as if she were thirsty, polishing off the glass in just a few swallows. Calleigh refilled it.

Calleigh had just fetched a second bottle, though she was only on her second glass herself, when Horatio came back. He took in the scene at a glance and frowned at Calleigh, who shot him a look of challenging determination. "Is Rosalind asleep?" she asked sweetly.

"Finally. It took a little while, though." He accepted the glass that Calleigh handed him and started sipping the wine. Instead of joining her mother on the couch, he sat down in the recliner along with Calleigh, making a snugly comfortable fit.

"She doesn't want to miss anything," Jean stated, her voice getting thick.

"You're right there," Horatio said. "The world just fascinates her."

"Why does this sound familiar?" Calleigh ran a hand lightly down the inside of his leg, a purely private gesture that her mother was too far gone by now to notice. Horatio glanced over at her, then leaned forward to refill Jean's glass himself.

"So nice to be here with family," Jean said carefully. "Remember all those wonderful Christmases when you were growing up, Calleigh?" Actually, no, Calleigh thought. "Back when your dear father was alive and before your brothers . . ." Her voice trailed off, confused, trying to recapture her own version of what had happened to Calleigh's brothers. Her mind would never let her admit the reality. It wasn't even a lie she believed, because she honestly did not realize she had created it. As always when stuck at the possibility of an unpleasant fact about herself, she simply diverted. "Did you have nice holidays growing up, Horatio?" She stumbled badly over his name. "All your family with you. Nothing like being all together, is there?"

Horatio hesitated, trying to pick a response that would be true, then captured one. "My mother always did her best to make Christmas special for us."

Jean finished her glass, and Calleigh refilled it. "That's what mothers do," Jean stated. "Look after their kids. Take care of them. Always loved taking care of kids. Nothing like them." Her voice was running down like a dying music box. She tossed off the wine in a few gulps and then looked confused at the empty glass, wondering how it got that way. Calleigh stood up, pushing Horatio firmly back down into the chair.

"Why don't you get to bed, Mother? It's been a long day."

"Tired," she said, stumbling to her feet. "Nice family time, though. So glad to be here, Calleigh."

Calleigh dragged her mother's arm around her shoulders and looked back at Horatio. "Stay put," she commanded, her tone freezing him again halfway out of the chair. "I'll deal with it." She navigated her mother down the hall to the guest room, then helped her undress and tucked her in. Jean was already snoring by the time Calleigh reached the door.

Horatio had moved after all. He was on his feet in the middle of the living room, looking toward the hall, trapped between her veto and his nature. "I could have helped you."

"Call it punishment for me for getting her drunk." She launched herself at him, shutting his mouth with hers, her hands exploring urgently. Time to begin stage two of Operation Peaceful Night. This part, at least, would be a lot more enjoyable. She broke the kiss long enough to state, "Horatio, do you realize that every other person in this house is asleep except us?"

His eyes sparkled as they drank her in. "Can't waste that opportunity, can we?" He scooped her up suddenly, starting down the hall with her in his arms. Calleigh thought briefly of resisting, solely out of concern for him, then settled back into his arms. Reminding him how worn out he was and the reasons for it wouldn't help her plan. She was determined that he would sail into sleep tonight thinking about something besides the investigation or 30 lost minutes.

They arrived at the bedroom and landed together on the bed, struggling to remove their clothes without completely breaking contact. Calleigh was lost once again in love and passion for this man. Making love, indeed. Every time, her love for him swelled even more, totally consuming her. Tonight, she lost track of her scheme fairly quickly, but her body must have carried it out pretty well without benefit of thought, because Horatio did end up asleep eventually, deeply, soundly asleep, and his last thoughts definitely had not been of Steve Parker. Calleigh watched him in the moonlight from the window as long as she could keep her eyes open, then joined him in rest. The house was quiet.

The sharp, urgent ring of the phone shattered the still night. Calleigh lunged for it as she woke up, but it was on Horatio's side of the bed, and he already had it, waking up instantly, his phone instinct deeply ingrained. Damn, she thought. She glanced at the clock. It was 1:30. They had been asleep for about four hours. She heard Horatio's voice tighten and felt his body come alert with sudden worry. "I'll be right there," he replied. He hung up the phone, switched on the lamp, and turned to face her. "That was Monica Weaver. Bill never came home tonight, but Argo, his dog, just got there alone. He's been shot."


	7. Caine Mutiny 7

Here's chapter 7 of the Caine Mutiny. My information on Post Office collection hours comes from a friend who works in another large city at the P.O. He thought it was standard, but it is possible that it doesn't precisely match Miami. I'm also not an expert on orchids, although the case Speed mentions is a real one I read about. I guarantee, however, that I will never write into a story a teenage athlete who has had a total knee replacement, which puts me ahead of Jerry and TPTB. Deb

(H/C)

"A slow sort of country!" said the Queen. "Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that."

Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

(H/C)

Bill and Monica Weaver's house was smallish but comfortable. It was a happy house, normally at least, but at the moment, it seemed as much in shock as Monica did. Privacy and contentment had been shattered. The rude swirl of police lights as another squad car pulled up overpowered the white string of Christmas lights along the eaves.

Wedged into the small living room were Captain Martin, Tripp, Horatio, two other officers, Monica Weaver, and a veterinarian. Horatio knelt next to Argo. The large German Shepherd had been heavily sedated, and he was oblivious to the touch as Horatio carefully combed his fur, looking for any indication of where the dog had been.

"Is he going to be okay?" Monica asked anxiously. She wanted to ask that question about Bill, but she wouldn't do that to them. She knew they couldn't possibly answer.

"It's a flesh wound," the vet replied. "He's going to be pretty sore for a week or two, but he should be all right. He's been hit on the head with something, too. He's got some swelling on the left side."

"He did his best to protect Bill," Horatio stated. "I'm going to need that bullet. Can you get it here, or do you need to take him back to the clinic?"

The vet looked up at Monica. "I can remove it here under local. It isn't that deep. It might be better if I took him back with me, though. He'll need dressing changes and such, and you'll be busy with other things during the investigation."

"No," Monica objected. "I'll take care of him." The dog was a tangible link to her husband. Taking care of him would at least give her a useful channel for her anxiety for Bill.

The vet injected more local anesthetic around the bullet wound in Argo's shoulder and picked up an instrument from his bag. Horatio moved to the dog's head and opened his mouth, carefully shining a flashlight around his quite-efficient-looking teeth. "He bit somebody. We've got the killer's DNA, unless Argo happened to pick it up on the job yesterday."

"Not as likely for a narc dog," the captain stated. "Tripp, have somebody check Bill's log from yesterday. See if he reported a fight at any time." Tripp pulled out his cell phone. They had already checked the time Bill left but not a summary of his day. Horatio pulled floss out of his field kit and carefully captured the flesh between Argo's teeth, packaging it and labeling it for CSI.

The vet held out the bullet triumphantly. "Got it."

Horatio took the forceps and carefully studied it before dropping it in an evidence envelope. "9 mil."

"Maybe the gun is in the database," one of the officers suggested. Nobody looked very hopeful.

Tripp pocketed his cell phone. "No fights yesterday. Normal day from Bill's log. Just routine drug searches."

Horatio picked up a paw and studied the pad carefully. "When Bill was attacked, Argo must have been shot and then knocked out defending him, so he couldn't follow immediately. The only reason for him to come home is if he totally lost Bill's trail."

"He was hurt," the captain reminded him.

Monica shook her head. "He'd go after Bill, if he could."

"So the killer took Bill off in a car with all vents and such closed," Horatio said. "There wasn't enough scent trail for Argo to track. We've got to find the main scene."

"Too bad the dog can't talk," one of the officers said.

Horatio picked up another paw. "Maybe he can." This one had a trace of something yellow across the pad. "That looks like fresh paint." Everybody crowded in for a closer look. Horatio took a sample. "Maybe we can find where roads were being striped last night. It looks like that shade of yellow, and they paint them at night on the main streets sometimes to cut down on traffic interference. Of course, that's not necessarily the crime scene. Could just be along the route between there and here."

"Got to start somewhere," Tripp noted.

"The best thing we've got is the DNA. No getting around that." Horatio stood up. "I'll take this back to CSI. We can also run searches on cases involving both Steve and Bill. Unfortunately, since Steve was a detective and Bill is in K9, they would both appear on a lot of cases." He refused to assign past tense to Bill yet.

Tripp nodded. "I'll cover the route between here and the police complex. Might find the paint myself. Or the car."

"We've got an APB out on Bill's car," the captain put in.

"Also Explorers with new tires," Horatio suggested. "We think the killer used an Explorer to transport Steve. The tracks are so similar in wear, Calleigh estimates from Sampson's information that the killer's Explorer also had tires replaced within the last month. She was calling tire shops yesterday but nothing yet." He sighed. "Of course, that's guessing that the mileage is similar. Sampson drove his regularly."

The captain nodded. "Good thinking. I'll ask all traffic officers to watch for Explorers with new tires and pull them over for a license and insurance check. Let's go."

The crowd started to trickle out of the house, except for the vet, who was still bandaging Argo's shoulder. Horatio paused at the door to turn back to Monica. "I'll . . ." he started, then broke off. He had done his best on Steve's case, or thought he had, and he had still failed his friend. She deserved more reassurance than an empty promise.

Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. She touched him lightly on the arm, the role of comforter oddly reversed. "I know you will, Horatio. Bill knows it, too."

He picked up her hand and squeezed it, promising her what he was certain he could fulfill. "I'll keep you posted."

(H/C)

The Hummer's headlights sliced through the darkness, bobbing with the rough road. Horatio stopped just at the bay and got out. There was nothing but silence and inky blackness. He hadn't expected anything else. They already knew, from both the dirt on Steve's clothes and Sampson's evidence, that Steve had been held elsewhere and moved here at the very end. Horatio walked over to the tree, finding it unerringly in the dark. Nothing. He leaned his forehead against it briefly. This spot was where time had run out for Steve. The whole cycle was starting again; he could feel it. Another friend, another several days of searching, another failure. "No," he vowed to the tree. "This time it will be different." He looked at his watch and illuminated the dial. He'd wasted two minutes and eight seconds out of the vehicle. Well, not wasted. Making sure Bill wasn't here was reasonable. Now, though, he was wasting precious time. He hurried back to the Hummer.

A rustle sounded behind him, and Horatio spun, drawing his gun in one smooth motion. He peered into the darkness, then pulled out his flashlight with his other hand. The circle of light drew two answering gleams from the brush. A large gator crept into the road. Horatio put his gun away. "Move, or I'll move you," he told it as he got into the Hummer. He had better things to worry about today than wildlife regulations. The Hummer's lights sprang to life, and the startled gator hurried across the rest of the road and dropped into the bay with a splash as Horatio drove on, heading for CSI.

(H/C)

Entering CSI, Calleigh found Horatio at a table in the lab. Papers and evidence were spread out before him, and he was studying them with a thoughtful frown between his eyes, so intent that he didn't notice her at first. All the better. She crept up behind him and seized him, dragging him up from the chair and spinning him to face her in one easy motion. He responded to her kiss for just a second before the case and their present location surged back to the front of his thoughts. One second was enough. Calleigh stepped back with a satisfied smirk, her hand dropping into the pocket of her lab coat, and Horatio stared at his blank wrist. A Miami pickpocket couldn't have lifted his watch more deftly. "Calleigh!" The annoyance she could deal with. It was the edge of desperation beneath it that broke her heart.

She held out her other hand with the sack. "Breakfast. I'll give you the watch back when you finish eating."

"I haven't got time for breakfast." He twisted, trying to spot a clock somewhere. Calleigh set the sack on the table and firmly pushed him back down into his chair.

"Horatio, you can't work all day without breakfast, at least not efficiently. Most important meal of the day. All the commercials say so." He eyed her, measuring her resolve, then opened the sack. He automatically glanced at his wrist again before he took his first bite, and Calleigh sighed privately behind her light front.

"I'd better bring you up to speed on the case," he said.

"Not while you're eating. Give yourself a few minutes. You've been working since 1:30 this morning." He glanced at his wrist again. "It's the same time it was last time you looked, Horatio – two hairs past a freckle. Guess what Rosalind said this morning."

He half smiled, saluting her tactics. "What?"

"Christmas. She didn't have all of it quite right, but the meaning got across. Trouble is, I think she thinks it's the name of the tree. She did ask where you were." Calleigh launched into a thorough, even protracted account of Rosalind's morning, and Horatio finished eating. He crumpled the sack, threw it away, and then held out his hand firmly, ready for argument. Calleigh meekly gave him the watch back. She had distracted him for 10 minutes, and that was more of a break than he would have given himself. "Okay, Horatio. Tell me about Bill."

He ran through what they had so far, giving her the envelope with the bullet. She pulled it out to study it, too eager to wait for the microscope. "Standard 9 mil. He was probably just trying to put the dog out of commission, though. I doubt he shot Bill."

Horatio nodded. "Shooting is too quick. He'd want to spin it out. Considering what he did to Steve, the torture is the main point of his revenge." A ghostly echo of remembered pain shot through his leg, and once again, he was back briefly in the warehouse last February. Calleigh was there ahead of him, and their eyes met in mutual memory.

Eric entered the room, snapping them back to the present. "I called all the hospitals and urgent care clinics, H. Nobody's turned up with a dog bite, and if somebody does, they'll call us."

"Good. Speed's working on the DNA." Horatio held out a paper. "The paint on Argo's foot exactly matches the kind used for street stripes. I had just finished looking this up. These are the locations where street workers were last night, and only two of them are anywhere close to between the police buildings and Bill's house. I want you to check those sections of road. There should be a paw print for a step or two after Argo hit the paint. Find that and work backwards, see if we can get the abduction scene."

"You got it, H." Eric took the list of streets and headed off, ducking back at the door to allow the Narcotics secretary to enter before he exited.

Horatio sighed and snapped on gloves, taking the envelope. Calleigh handed her an evidence envelope to sign. Horatio came to alert attention, perfectly still as his eyes bored into the envelope in his hands. "Somebody stepped on this."

Calleigh pushed in next to him to see. Sure enough, there was the edge of shoe tread faintly visible on one corner of the outer envelope.

"Not me," the secretary said. "Can't vouch for the Post Office, but I never dropped it."

"Let's hope the killer did," Horatio replied. "Thank you." She left, and Horatio and Calleigh together studied the envelope. "He mailed this one, too."

"Hasn't he been mailing all of them lately?"

"He took Bill after 9:00 last night. Last mail collection at the Post Office for postmark that day is 8:00. I thought he might try to write a special message after he had Bill put wherever he took him and slip that one into ID mail again. Either this is just another generic message, or he's getting cocky."

"One way to find out," Calleigh remarked.

He slit the envelope and withdrew the message. 'And then there were none.'

"That's a book, isn't it?" Calleigh asked.

Horatio nodded. "Bestseller by Agatha Christie. It's about a group of people trapped on an island with a killer among them, and they all die one by one. The countdown is the main plot device of the book." He stared at the note. "I've never read it, but Ray loved it. Agatha Christie was one of his favorite authors. I actually remember him and Bill discussing that book once." He shivered slightly, hearing the conversation again in his mind. Ray was dead, and Bill was missing. Only the memory remained.

Calleigh saw his eyes go distant and followed the thought. She reached out to put a hand on his arm. "Horatio," she started.

He jumped at her touch and pulled away, looking at his watch. "I'm wasting time. I've had this for three minutes and six seconds, and I haven't even given it to Speed yet." He surged to his feet. "Let me know what you find on that bullet, Cal." He was out the door, heading for Trace, before she could reply. With a sigh, she headed for Ballistics. At least she could do something for him there that he would accept.

(H/C)

Calleigh found Horatio in his office an hour later, running computer searches again, looking for cases that both Steve and Bill had worked in some way. As he had feared, the list was extensive. The DNA from Argo's teeth wasn't in the system, so he could eliminate cases where the subject's DNA was recorded. That still left most of them. DNA evidence wasn't usually a part of drug cases. He looked up as she entered. "Anything?"

"No match. We haven't met this gun before." He sighed. "I'm sure we will, though," she continued.

"Eventually," he agreed. He glanced at his watch again.

Speed clattered up the stairs, looking almost excited. "H, I've got something from the shoe print. Estimated size 10 men's shoe. There was trace on the treads. Residue from phalaenopsis orchid blooms."

Horatio and Calleigh stared at each other. "Orchids?" they said simultaneously, trying to picture an ex-con who had served time on drug charges who ate Three Musketeers, read Hamlet, and raised orchids.

"Orchids," Speed confirmed. "Course, we don't know that it's the killer who stepped on it. It could have been dropped by anybody processing the mail. The thing is, I ran into a case once involving orchids. People get fanatical about them. There was actually a murder over them on that case. Somebody broke in and cut the blooms off all of a rival's orchids right before a show, and the rival killed over it."

Horatio picked up the train of thought. "So like any fanatics, they have clubs and meetings."

"Right. I called the local Miami orchid club. Took some convincing, but I got them to fax me their membership roster." He held out an impressive stack of papers. "I thought we could try correlating the names against the drug cases list. Last names, anyway. Maybe our ex-con has a wife who raises orchids."

Horatio was impressed. "Nice going, Speed." He split the stack into thirds. "Eric's still looking for the abduction scene. The three of us will take this. Search on last names only. Skim it completely first before you go to the computer. A name may come to mind from an old case."

Calleigh and Speed took their sections and headed back down into the labs. Horatio sat back in his chair and looked at his watch, marking the exact time, before he started scanning the last third of the membership list of the South Florida Orchid Society. Four minutes and nine seconds later, he turned to his computer. At five minutes and three seconds, he grabbed for the phone.

(H/C)

Connor Stapleton's estate was protected from his less-wealthy neighbors by a secure fence. An ornate set of iron gates further advertised his bank account. At the moment, the gates stood open, and the Hummer and the patrol car behind entered the grounds unchallenged. The driveway wound through the beautiful grounds to a mansion. No smaller word could adequately describe it. Even the detached garage a short distance away was as large as most people's houses.

A woman was standing in front of the mansion, consulting with a man over a shrub. As she spotted them and started toward the cars, Horatio noticed that she was wearing a sweatshirt from the South Florida Orchid Society. He climbed out of the Hummer, firmly reminding himself that they had no warrant and nothing to go on that wasn't circumstantial. He wanted to turn this whole place inside out, but he had to proceed carefully here. "Mrs. Stapleton?"

She sized him up with a sweeping, almost predatory appraisal, and her eyes approved what they saw – and let him know it. "Yes. May I help you?"

"Lieutenant Horatio Caine, Miami-Dade PD." Her interest grew another notch at the name, and Horatio wondered if she had seen Hamlet put on a month ago, and who had accompanied her. "This is my wife, Detective Calleigh Caine, and Detective Tripp." The woman didn't even look at Calleigh and only glanced briefly at Tripp before settling firmly again on Horatio. Alley cat, Calleigh thought. This woman was married, but clearly only to a bank account, not a person. Horatio honestly seemed oblivious to her subtle signals, and Calleigh found herself grinning as he continued, purely professional. "We'd like to speak to your son for a few minutes."

"He's not here at the moment. Chip hasn't been in any further trouble, has he? It was just a little misunderstanding last year. He fell in with the wrong crowd, you know. He didn't do anything himself." Actually, Chip Stapleton had only been saved from prison time by the lawyer his father paid for. "Are you sure I can't help you with something?" She batted her eyelashes at him.

Horatio glanced around the estate. "Is your husband here?" He doubted it. Connor Stapleton had been absolutely offended that anyone would dare arrest his son, and he had hated the police since. If he was anywhere around, he would already be challenging them, and his lawyer would already be on the way.

"Not at the moment. He and my brother Mitchell should be back before long." Her beautiful lip was starting to curl into a pout. This stunning redhead wasn't noticing her at all, and she wasn't used to it. "Are you sure I can't do something for you, Lieutenant?"

Horatio seized the moment. If Stapleton would be back before long, they had better get to work. "Do you mind if we have a look around, Mrs. Stapleton?"

She wouldn't mind, but her husband definitely would. Horatio was gambling that she would give them permission just to spite him. He was right. "Of course not. Feel free."

She trailed them into the house, and Horatio turned back. "Actually, we could work better alone if you don't mind. We had obviously interrupted you, anyway."

She sighed, giving up. She didn't understand this man at all. "I was just talking with Daniels, the gardener, about adding a few more flowering shrubs. I guess I could finish that. Make yourself at home, Lieutenant."

"We will," Horatio said, subtly emphasizing the first word.

"What a tramp," Calleigh stated as the door safely closed between them. Tripp gave her an understanding grin. Horatio was already exploring.

"Okay, let's divide up. Be fast but thorough. We're going to get kicked off the estate as soon as Stapleton comes back, so this is our only chance without a warrant. Tripp, why don't you go out the back door and check the outbuildings? I saw a few storage sheds as well as the garage."

"Right." Tripp disappeared toward the back of the house.

Horatio headed upstairs, and Calleigh took the ground floor. She found a large room devoted entirely to the orchids, as well as a study with a gun safe on one wall. She tried the door, but it was locked. Standing on tiptoe, she ran her hand along the top, and the key fell off. "Idiot," she muttered, bending to pick it up. "Why don't any of them ever get original?" She unlocked the safe and surveyed the collection. There were rifles, shotguns, even a .44, but there was no 9 millimeter. She relocked the safe, replaced the key, and checked the desk drawers. Another handgun, this time a 22. Giving up on the study, she pushed further into the massive house.

Upstairs, Horatio had found Chip's room. No 9 millimeter. Nothing. There was a Three Musketeers bar on the chest. He looked under the bed and then in the closet, carefully inspecting the soles of all the shoes. They were size 10, but he couldn't find a matching tread to the partial from the envelope. He heard a car outside and immediately left Chip's room, picking up speed, quickly looking in every room and every closet on the second and third floor. No gun. No matching shoes, although two other people wore size 10. No stencil. No Bill. Outside, he heard Tripp's voice raised, giving them notice, buying them time. He finished his lightning search and hurried down the stairs, meeting Calleigh at the foot.

"I found orchids, but nothing else," she reported. "He has plenty of guns, but no 9 mil."

"No gun, no matching shoes," he told her. "I can't find any sign that they're involved."

"The wife sure isn't involved, or she wouldn't have given us permission to search."

Horatio sighed. "Too much to hope for, I guess. It was totally circumstantial, anyway."

She gave him a quick squeeze. "We'll find him, Horatio."

The front door burst open, nearly hitting the wall with the knob. Connor Stapleton stalked in, furious, with Tripp, his wife, the gardener, and another man, presumably the brother, trailing him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We had permission to look around," Horatio said.

Stapleton glared at his wife, then filed that complaint for later and turned back to Horatio. "This is persecution, you know. You come after my son last year when he was an innocent bystander, and now I find you searching my estate. Looking for the evidence you didn't have a year ago? Can't you people do your jobs right? Total waste of the taxpayer's money, most of you. Get off my property, and you'd better not even breathe onto this estate without a warrant next time."

Calleigh felt her temper ignite, and Horatio stilled her with a touch. "We were just leaving," he stated. They walked out to the vehicles, drove out of the grounds, and stopped just outside for a conference, within annoying view of Stapleton. "Find anything, Tripp?"

Tripp shook his head. "It was hurried, but I looked in every building. No sign of Bill, no gun."

"We did find orchids," Calleigh reminded.

"Chip eats Three Musketeers bars, too," Horatio said. He gave Calleigh an apologetic look. "The reason I shut you off back there is because I didn't want Stapleton to know exactly what case we were here on."

The light dawned. "That's a good point. We never actually mentioned it to anybody."

"It gives us a better idea if they have anything on their conscience." He frowned. "Trouble is, I'm not sure Stapleton has one. His attitude wasn't what I'd expect if he had a part in this, though. There wasn't any uneasiness when he found us searching, just anger. The one I'd really like to talk to is Chip, if I could, and I didn't want him forewarned by his father about our suspicions. Let Stapleton think we were here on the old case." He looked over at Tripp. "Find any Explorers?"

"No. Three car garage, one Mercedes in it, one BMW that they drove up in."

Horatio turned back to look up the driveway toward the house. At that moment, the gates, obviously remote controlled, swung firmly shut. "It was just a guess," he said. His shoulders drooped for just a second before he straightened up and looked at his watch. "Let's head back to CSI and try to come up with a better one."

(H/C)

Horatio sat in his office running more computer searches, sifting slowly through the membership of the South Florida Orchid Society, comparing the last names to old cases. Of course, the orchids probably belonged to a postal worker's wife. Nothing. Every time he thought he had something on this case and chased it further, it disappeared. Eric had managed to find the crime scene after searching most of the day. Other than some blood from Argo and a smaller amount from Bill, more likely from a blow than a shot, there was nothing. Bill's car had disappeared, probably also stolen.

He was still convinced that the killer had seen Hamlet at the University a month ago, but if so, he must have been in the unidentified majority of the audience. Several of the letters had referred to or quoted Hamlet, but no other Shakespeare play had been used in two weeks on this case, leading him to believe that this killer wasn't a general Shakespeare fan or a theater worker and had only happened to see the one play. Hamlet was remarkable, but no true Shakespeare student could confine himself to one play. There were too many other lines that this killer would have appreciated. He had obviously never seen or read Macbeth, for instance. Horatio wished he had had time to ask Mrs. Stapleton if she had attended Hamlet.

The office door shut with a firm, determined click, and he looked up at Calleigh. She had her on-a-mission expression. "What is it, Cal?"

Calleigh had been dreading this confrontation all day. It had come anyway. "It's almost time to pick up Rosalind, Horatio."

"You'd better get going, then. It's okay; I understand."

She crossed to the desk. Standing, she was taller than he was sitting, and she used the illusion for effect. "No, you don't understand, Horatio. You're leaving, too."

He instantly looked at his watch. "I can't, Calleigh. I can't leave this one."

"You don't have any choice, Horatio. You're in no shape to keep going. You're almost ready to fall out of that chair now if you'd just let yourself notice."

His body slumped, reacting to the suggestion, but his mind stayed on top of it, oblivious. "I'm fine. Bill is out there somewhere, Calleigh, and I'm not going to let him down. Not another one."

She came around the desk and spun him in the chair to face her, gripping his arms, digging her fingers in to make him feel it. "Horatio, it wasn't your fault."

His eyes met hers squarely. They were red-rimmed, exhausted, two deep-set coals that still burned with self-directed fire. "Tell that to Susan Parker."

"She's told it to you."

"Well, what would you expect her to say?" He looked at his watch again. "We're wasting time here, Cal. Go get Rosalind and go home."

Wasting time. If that was her only weapon, she would use it. "I'll go get her, and then I'll bring her back here. She can play on your desk."

That jolted him. "I wouldn't get anything done with her here."

"You're right, you wouldn't," Calleigh agreed.

"I could order you to go home."

Her chin came up. She was still taller than he was at the moment. "Just try it, Handsome, and you'll have a mutiny on your hands." He studied her, and the ghost of a smile played around his lips. "Actually, Horatio, I'm forgetting Mother. We really have been neglecting her. I'll pick her up after I get Rosalind and bring her back with me. I'm sure she'd enjoy a tour of CSI."

He bowed his head, acknowledging defeat. "Let me finish this search," he asked softly. "I was making a list of possible matches tonight, and we can check them out in person tomorrow."

Calleigh wanted to drag him out with her now, but she suddenly realized that he wouldn't get any rest for a few hours anyway, whether he was still here at CSI or home with her mother. It would take her mother that long to start to run down after being alone all day. At least here, he might get something useful done, while Calleigh could take the edge off her mother first. "Okay, Horatio. Keep working. But if you're not home by 8:30, we're coming up here after you. All of us." He shuddered. "And don't even think of telling me you lost track of time. I won't believe you."

He nodded meekly. "I'll be home by 8:30. Thanks, Calleigh."

She bent over to kiss him briefly. "See you then."

After she left, Horatio turned back to the computer. He looked at his watch. Allowing 20 minutes to drive home, that left him with three hours and two minutes to work. For just a moment, the watch face was replaced by the spinning clock on the end of Steve's casket. Horatio firmly pushed the image away and started another search.


	8. Caine Mutiny 8

Chapter 8 of the Caine Mutiny. Here's a family scene of a different type. This is it until Friday at the earliest, as I'm tied up with musical activities for several days. Two concerts and a solo this week. On a broken foot. Sigh. Thanks for reading. Deb

(H/C)

"The difference between your family and your friends is that you get to choose your friends."

Anonymous

(H/C)

Calleigh fought to unlock the door, trying to hold onto her squirming daughter at the same time. Rosalind wanted down, somehow thinking she might get in faster under her own power. "I'd get it open faster if you'd hold still," Calleigh pointed out, trying to work the correct key into the lock.

Rosalind banged her hands against the closed door. "Dada!" she said, and Calleigh sighed.

"He's not here, Angel. He won't be home until later." Rosalind hadn't seen Horatio all day, and she was assuming that he would be inside. Usually, if he didn't pick her up himself or together with Calleigh, he would be waiting for them at home. Now, Rosalind reached for the knob herself and managed to knock the keys out of Calleigh's fumbling hand. Calleigh dropped the diaper bag trying to catch them, and it landed, of course, upside down, things spilling through the top, which hadn't quite been zipped. Calleigh knelt and started picking things up and stuffing them back in the bag at random, and Rosalind, temporarily freed, pulled herself up on the door and banged vigorously against it.

The door opened so quickly that Rosalind fell inside and landed on her nose. Calleigh looked up from her knees to see her mother standing in the doorway. "Calleigh, what on earth are you doing?"

"I'm picking things up," she replied, trying not to sound annoyed. What did it look like she was doing? Where had her mother been for the last two minutes while she was fighting the lock? Calleigh reached for Rosalind, who was whimpering slightly, not quite crying. "Are you okay, Angel?"

Jean plucked Rosalind out of her hands, picking her up quickly. "Poor little girl. Did Mama let you fall? It's okay, Memaw has you now."

Rosalind planted both hands on Jean's chest and pushed back, trying to escape the hug enough to look around. "Dada?"

Calleigh finished gathering the contents of the diaper bag and stood back up. "He's not here, Rosalind. I'm sorry. He's working."

A frown of worry suddenly creased Jean's forehead. "You said he was working this morning."

"He was working this morning. And tonight. This case we've got at the moment is a really tough one." Calleigh entered the house and slammed to a dead halt so quickly that Jean, who had closed the door and turned around, ran smack into her. "Mother, what happened here?" Rosalind, squashed between them, started whimpering again, and Calleigh firmly took her back from Jean and held her, unsure if she or her daughter needed comfort more at the moment.

The living room had been transformed since that morning. The couch had been pulled over at an angle, the other furniture was reshuffled as well, and the centerpiece of the room now was the coffee table with an 11 x 14 picture of Calleigh's father on it. A few photo albums were scattered here and there, and the shelves on one wall had other pictures wedged between their original contents. Calleigh's father with his children. Calleigh's father with Jean. Calleigh's father with a drunken smile on his face on her parents' anniversary.

"I did some redecorating," Jean said brightly, stepping around Calleigh to study the room with satisfaction. "All these pictures, and you didn't have one of him. You should have said something, dear, I could have sent you some. The couch really looks better slanted like that, too, don't you think?"

Calleigh closed her eyes and counted to 10, then 20, then 30. She had just reached 45 when Rosalind patted her face with concern, and she opened her eyes again, looking straight into Horatio's eyes in his daughter's face. Even the consideration for others was there.

Horatio. Calleigh glanced quickly at the clock. It was 5:45. If he saw this, it would be one of the few points of stability in his life at the moment ripped out from under him like a rug. Not only that, he would also try to conceal how upset he was behind his courteous front, adding even more stress that he didn't need. She gave her daughter a squeeze and set her down, then started for the nearest out-of-place chair, shoving it back to its former location.

Jean's tone was wounded and bleeding. "Don't you like it, Calleigh?"

"No, Mother. We liked it like it was. That's why it was that way in the first place. Would you please pick up those pictures?" She took out her frustration on the furniture, forcing herself not to yell at her mother. The most maddening thing among many about Jean was that getting annoyed with her was pointless. She would never change, would never understand, and nothing could be gained. Arguing with the furniture was more productive. It at least would move. Calleigh threw her irritation at the couch, and it moved a good six inches on the impact. She scooted it back into place, cringing as she imagined Horatio's reaction to that crazy slant, totally destroying the organization and flow of the room.

Jean slowly began to pick up the pictures of Calleigh's father. "I just thought it could be better. And really, Calleigh, I do get lonely all day sitting around here. I have to keep occupied with something. You two have hardly spent any time with me since I arrived."

Calleigh was carrying on a silent conversation with the furniture, saying what it would be pointless to say aloud. You weren't supposed to even be here for another week, you turn up in the middle of the night, and then YOU accuse US of inconsideration? Thank God Horatio hadn't been here. He would have tried to talk to her mother, not accepting the futility without the attempt, and he had enough else to worry about. She was actually glad he was working late. She finished her unplanned workout and stepped back to look at the room, searching for anything still out of place.

Her attention suddenly was caught by something not just misplaced but absent. The picture of Horatio's mother playing the piano, the picture that always lived on top of the piano that had been hers, had completely disappeared. "Mother, where is that picture that was on the piano?"

Jean instantly looked like a guilty puppy caught after a mess. "It's, um, . . ." The last few words died in an indistinct mumble.

"Where is it, Mother?"

"I. . . threw it away."

"WHAT?" Calleigh surged across the room with murder in her eyes, and Jean backed away.

"There's no need to raise your voice, Calleigh. It was ruined. You've got others, though. There's a picture of her in every room in this house. All those of her and not even one of your father."

Calleigh gripped her mother's arms painfully. Jean was backed to the wall and couldn't escape. "TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!" she demanded.

"I was. . . moving the chair, and I lost my grip on the chair suddenly and fell back . . . into the edge of the piano . . . and it fell and smashed. I'm sure I've got a bruise on my back, too. It was hurting me the whole rest of the afternoon." Calleigh dropped her mother's arms and spun, making a beeline for the kitchen, and Jean rubbed her back for a minute before tentatively following. "There are plenty more, though. All over this house. It's just one picture."

Calleigh had dumped the trash can out in the middle of the kitchen floor, frantically sifting through the contents until she found the photo. The glass was shattered, and two sides of the wooden frame dangled brokenly. Jean must have fallen on top of the picture after it fell from the piano; she had the build of a hippopotamus. The photo itself, though, was unmarked. Calleigh gave a sigh of relief and looked up to see Rosalind crawling into the kitchen. "No, Rosalind! Mother, grab her. I've got to get this glass cleaned up." Jean captured Rosalind, making probably her first useful contribution to the day, and tightly held her captive while Calleigh put the trash back in the can and carefully swept the floor. Finally convinced that the last shard of glass was cleaned up, she went into the living room to inspect the floor next to the piano. Jean had at least cleaned that up well, or probably had tried to hide the evidence. As if they wouldn't notice.

Calleigh took a quick mental inventory, then went into the guest room, removing the picture of Horatio's mother that hung there, noting with relief that Jean had apparently confined her redecorating to the living room. The frame on that picture was at least the same size and color as the broken one. She carefully exchanged the photos and propped the piano picture back on the piano, studying the result. Horatio would notice the difference, but hopefully he wouldn't notice it tonight. She tucked the other picture in a drawer, added a new frame to her shopping list, and finally started cooking almost an hour later than intended.

Jean followed her back into the kitchen, still holding Rosalind tightly, despite Rosalind's best efforts to wiggle out of her arms. "I don't know what you're getting so worked up about. It's just one picture, Calleigh. There are a dozen more here."

Calleigh spun around. "Mother, those pictures are all Horatio has left of her. His mother was murdered when he was 17."

Jean frowned as that soaked through. "Did they catch who did it?"

"Yes, they caught who did it."

"Good. That's over, then." That bit of compassion satisfied, Jean returned to her original thought. "Does he really need at least one picture in every room, though?"

Not anymore, but once, yes, he desperately needed it because he couldn't remember what she looked like. Calleigh didn't bother explaining; Jean would never hold onto any thought that didn't involve her anyway. Calleigh and Horatio had discussed the pictures, and he offered to take some of them down, but Calleigh had decided by then that she liked them. His mother seemed like the guardian angel of the house and their relationship, always smiling down on them from somewhere nearby. He had likewise offered to let her put more of hers on display, but with his unfailing sensitivity, he hadn't pursued the subject when she refused. Calleigh realized that Jean was droning on in the background and interrupted her. "Mother, this is our house, and we have it arranged exactly like we want it. Please don't move anything. And if you break something, just say so. Don't throw it away."

"It's not like I meant to break it," Jean protested. "I did hurt my back, too. Do we have any aspirin? Aren't we ready to eat yet?"

Calleigh took five mental shots and then replied, "Almost. You could set the table if you like." Jean started opening cabinets at random, looking in all the wrong places for the dishes and making suggestions for reorganizing them, and Calleigh wound up setting the table herself.

Just when Calleigh was thinking the evening couldn't get worse, the meal led to two more confrontations, the first merely annoying, the second enraging. To begin with, Jean wanted to feed Rosalind, but Calleigh, deciding that Rosalind had had enough by being held for so long, fed her herself. After being given a flat refusal for the fifth time, Jean sat on the other side of the table and sulked, and Calleigh and Rosalind eyed each other with almost identical expressions as they ate. Calleigh usually thought her daughter looked like Horatio, but just now, she saw herself in every line, and she sympathized.

"Where is Horatio?" Jean suddenly looked around the room as if he might be hiding in a corner.

"I told you, Mother, he had to work late."

Jean studied her silverware. "He works late quite a bit, doesn't he?"

"Lately, yes. It's this case . . ."

"Calleigh, he doesn't look well. He's seemed stressed out about something ever since I got here, and I think maybe it's time you started looking for the reason. An outsider can see these things so much more clearly sometimes."

Calleigh put down her fork. "Mother, what are you talking about? I agree, Horatio is pushed to the limit right now, but it's just the case."

"No, it isn't." Jean assumed an expression of motherly wisdom. "Don't you see, Calleigh, work is just an excuse to avoid having to come home."

Calleigh's jaw dropped, almost joining her fork on the table. "You think we're having problems? Is that it?"

"To a mother's eyes, it's obvious, Calleigh. He's staying away from home, fretting himself sick, and it must be you. Rosalind couldn't be the cause. You've got to start showing him some affection, Calleigh. Give him time, pay attention to him. He's slipping away from you, and you haven't even noticed. And you know why? It's because you're really in love with this house. You're too busy worrying about the pictures and the furniture to remember the people. Believe me, the tension around here is so thick I could cut it with a knife. I wouldn't be surprised if he just didn't come home one of these nights, and the next thing you hear from him will be the divorce lawyer."

Calleigh slowly reassembled her face. "Mother, trust me, Horatio and I are doing fine."

"All you have to do is really look at him, Calleigh. He's either going to leave or ruin his health by staying. I'm telling you, you're killing him, and you won't even admit that there's a problem. Don't you want your daughter to grow up knowing her father? You've got to stop taking people for granted, Calleigh. You always did that, even as a girl, but when you take things for granted, you look up one day, and they're gone. Open your eyes for once. You've got such a wonderful man there. I don't know how you ever managed to get him to marry you, but you did. Now, though, the honeymoon is over. You're losing him."

For one of the few times in her life, Calleigh was speechless. Rosalind squirmed in her high chair, having finished eating, and Calleigh released her, putting her on the floor. Fussing over her daughter for a minute helped her avoid killing her mother, which had been her first impulse. Her gun was just in the next room, carefully locked in a drawer. She could have it in under a minute, and the ocean with its convenient tide was just a few hundred feet away. Finally, she spoke, her southern drawl completely absent. "Mother, there is nothing wrong in our marriage. Do you hear me? NOTHING! Horatio is upset over this case, which he has every reason to be, and that's why he's working late and why he looks so stressed out at the moment. Now, I'm going to do the dishes, and you either talk about something else or try just shutting up for a change. This subject is officially closed."

She took out her frustration on the dishes, ignoring the dishwasher, washing each dish by hand at least three times, and it still didn't take long enough to suit her. Jean sat there sniffling at the table for a while, making more noise than Rosalind had earlier after falling. Finally, she got up from the table and went to the piano, stumbling over various ditties. Calleigh said nothing. As bad as the music was, the conversation so far tonight had been worse. At least the piano had resisted being moved earlier today.

It was about half an hour later, with the kitchen scrupulously clean, that Calleigh had no choice left but to go into the living room. "Where's Rosalind?" she asked abruptly.

Jean stopped playing and turned around, looking in the middle of the floor in case Calleigh had just overlooked her daughter. "I thought she was in the kitchen with you."

Calleigh looked in all the corners and under the furniture with growing urgency. When had she last seen her? Half an hour ago? God, what kind of a mother was she, anyway? Jean got up from the piano and joined the search, bellowing like a cow. "Rosalind! Come to Memaw!" They looked into all the rooms. Nothing. Calleigh carefully checked the front door, which was locked. There was no sign of her daughter anywhere.

Think. Calleigh forced her mind to stop spinning in circles of fault and worst-case scenarios and suddenly realized the truth. Jean's voice was still echoing off the walls as she came back from another fruitless search of the back rooms. "Mother, why don't you look out back? I don't think she could get through the back doors, and the pool is fenced, but there is the beach. Look around just in case, okay? I'll keep looking in here." Jean turned white, picturing Rosalind floating out with the tide. She bolted for the sliding glass doors, fumbling with the catch without noticing that it, too, had been locked, then raced outside. For the first time that evening, a tentative silence descended on the house.

Calleigh went back down the hall. It would be either the nursery or their bedroom, the farthest points from Jean. She tried the bedroom first, this time not just looking for a baby who had idly crawled off but for one who was hiding with no intention of being found. Not under the bed. The closet door stood open a few inches, and Calleigh swung it wide and separated the clothes in the deep closet, getting to the very back. Rosalind was tucked into the back corner of the closet, perfectly still and silent. Her eyes met Calleigh's with an expression of stubborn refusal that took Calleigh straight back to her own childhood, her face in the mirror when she had taken refuge in the bathroom, the one haven in the house where she would not be followed. She reached down for her daughter, and Rosalind let herself be scooped up and held. "Oh, baby, I'm sorry," Calleigh said. "She's only here for a little bit. It won't always be like this, Rosalind."

"No!" Rosalind said emphatically, and Calleigh gave a bittersweet laugh.

"Believe me, I know exactly how you feel. It's okay. We'll make it through somehow, and she will leave. You'll only have to see her at visits sometimes. She is family; we've got to give her that much."

"Dada!"

Calleigh hugged her tighter. "I'm sorry, Angel. He'll be home later. If I could trade Mother for him, I would have done it hours ago." She sighed. "Come on, we'd better go get Mother off the beach. I'll make you a deal, though. I'll hold you the rest of the evening. I think we've all had about enough of her tonight."

Together, they went down the hall and out the sliding glass doors, and Calleigh just stood there briefly looking up at the sky. It was hard to see much in the electric glow of Miami, but a few of the bolder stars were visible. It always amazed her somehow what the stars kept shining through. Steve was dead, Bill was missing, her mother was not missing, and Horatio was driving himself into collapse, but the stars were still there, as if everything were all right. They gave her hope that somehow, things would improve once again.

Jean's voice echoed up from the beach. "Rosalind!" Taking pity on her, Calleigh started down toward the restless ocean.

"It's okay, Mother. I found her." Jean came panting up to them in relief, trying to seize Rosalind, and Calleigh refused to let go. "It's her bedtime, Mother. Let's go back to the house, and I'll rock her to sleep."

Once back inside, Calleigh settled Jean on the couch with a photo album of pictures of Rosalind to look through, and she and her daughter escaped to the nursery. Rosalind didn't want to let go of her, not even to have her diaper changed and her sleeper put on, and Calleigh held her as much as she could, talking to her the whole time, reassuring her that Jean's presence was temporary and that she had a happy, stable family. Once they were in the rocking chair together, she sang to her softly, privately, not wanting her mother to hear and come to interrupt them. Rosalind held her eyes open as long as she could, watching her mother, and she finally relaxed enough to fall asleep. She never stirred when Calleigh tucked her into the crib a few minutes later.

Calleigh was just coming down the hall when she heard the door open, and her reluctant walk back to the living room became a half run. Horatio shut the door, and she seized him in a hug, a much-too-short hug because her mother was there almost instantly.

"Horatio! I'm so glad you decided to come back." Jean clutched at him, dragging him farther into the room, away from the door.

Horatio looked at Calleigh, puzzled. She lost track of her mother's ramblings as she took a good look at his face. Exhaustion, responsibility, disappointment, and pain all fought for possession of his eyes. Calleigh glanced at her watch. It was 8:30 on the nose. "Horatio, I'm going to heat up some soup for you, okay?" He nodded, lacking the energy to protest, and she managed to pry her mother loose from his arm. Jean had latched onto Horatio like she thought he would disappear. "Why don't you sit down, Mother? Let him breathe; he's had a long day. Come on, Horatio." They went into the kitchen together, and Horatio dropped into one of the chairs at the table. Calleigh kissed the top of his head. "Sorry," she said, sotto voce.

"Not your fault," he replied, his voice as silky as ever.

Calleigh crossed to the cabinet and took out a can of soup. As she dumped the soup in a boiler, her mother, having given them one minute of peace, came in and sat down at the table. "Horatio, I know it's been hard for you, but you've got to realize a few things."

Calleigh sat down next to Horatio, pulling her chair around the corner of the table to parallel his. "Mother, believe me, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I do. I've watched you all your life, you know. Stubborn as a mule. She always did have trouble being grateful for what she had, Horatio."

Horatio sat up straight and stared at her, stunned. "Calleigh isn't . . ." he started, automatically coming to her defense, and Jean cut him off.

"I know, she doesn't realize what she's doing. Still, give it another chance, Horatio. It's time somebody explained to both of you what marriage means."

Calleigh's jaw fell open as the memories of her childhood came crashing back. "Mother, believe me, I know what marriage means. It's the opposite of what you and Dad shared. We are NOT going to talk about this. There's nothing to talk about."

Tears welled up in Jean's eyes, and her lip started to tremble. "You never did appreciate us. Headstrong, independent. If your father were only here. . . " She sniffled a few times, then wiped her face on her sleeve and turned back to Horatio. "Let me explain everything to you, Horatio. It will help you know what to expect. Back when I was a girl, before I met Calleigh's father, I was looking for . . ."

Horatio opened his mouth, then snapped it shut suddenly. With a fierce grace, he pushed the chair back from the table, the legs squealing painfully in protest across the floor as he surged to his feet. He turned and walked out of the room in a tightly-controlled stride, and after a moment, the sharp thud of the bedroom door closing echoed through the house – not a slam but a solid, unmistakable barrier dropping into place.

Jean stared at the empty chair, confused. "What's with him?"

Calleigh stood up, crossing to the stove with a not-nearly-as-tightly-controlled stride, and slammed a bowl down on the counter to receive the soup. "Mother," she said through clenched teeth, "I'm going back to the bedroom, and you – stay – here." She fired the last three words like bullets. "Don't go back there, don't wake up Rosalind, don't move the furniture, and don't even think about continuing this conversation. For the rest of this night, LEAVE US ALONE." She pulled a tray out of the cabinet, putting the soup on it, then opened the refrigerator, carefully keeping her hands and eyes busy. She was afraid to look at her mother at the moment.

"That's a wonderful idea, Calleigh," Jean purred approvingly. "You can't keep taking him for granted. Go talk it out, just the two of you. He deserves more than he's been getting. You should go right in there and apologize to him for everything."

Calleigh finished gathering everything she needed. "Believe me, I intend to," she snarled. She stalked out of the kitchen, her angry steps both softening and quickening as she went down the hall. She tapped lightly on the closed bedroom door twice, then entered.

The room was dark, and she flipped on the light. Horatio was sitting on the side of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his face buried in his hands. Calleigh parked the tray on top of the chest, carefully closed the door again, then sat down next to him, running one hand gently up and down his back. He spoke while she was still trying to find adequate words. "I'm sorry, Cal. I just couldn't take it tonight." His face remained hidden in weary shame.

"You don't have to." Calleigh never stopped the soothing circuit across his back. "I'm the one who's sorry. When I was a kid, Horatio, and I totally hit the limit with them, I would go out in the woods alone with my gun. I'd practice target shooting for hours out there. I ran from them a lot of times. There's nothing wrong with hitting your limit, Horatio, especially with my mother. Everybody does."

He raised his head slightly. "I shouldn't have left you to deal with her alone, though."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not in there dealing with her." He gave a tentative smile at that, and Calleigh stood up long enough to retrieve the tray. She offered him a glass and two pills, which he eyed suspiciously. "It's Tylenol," she promised. She could tell from his eyes that he had a headache. She would have liked to give him something stronger to knock him out for some extended rest, but the case was too critical at the moment. He gulped the pills down, and she slid the tray onto his lap. "Eat that, Horatio. You need to eat something." Past arguing, he picked up the spoon. "Do you know what Rosalind did tonight?"

He considered the diversion for a minute, recognizing it as one, but the bait was too tempting. Calleigh waited patiently. "What?" he asked finally.

Calleigh ran through Rosalind's actions of the evening while Horatio ate. He was fully smiling by the time she finished. "So you see, Horatio, you are officially the last member of the family to walk out on my mother. Or crawl out, as the case may be. Even your daughter beat you to it."

He chuckled slightly. "Wish I could have seen it. She gets more remarkable every day."

"I was proud of her. I wasn't nearly that quick on the uptake. It took me years to realize it's the only way you can handle Mother sometimes. I hope there's never a crime committed in the woods near Darnell. I'll bet 75 percent of the trees there already have bullets in them. The CSIs would be going crazy trying to sort it out." He grinned at the thought, but mentioning CSIs automatically knocked him back onto the day's treadmill.

"I'm not getting anywhere, Calleigh," he said, his tone totally flat with exhaustion. "I thought we had it, but it slipped away again."

Calleigh took the tray with the empty dishes from him and returned it to the top of the chest. She came back to kneel at his feet, untying his shoes and taking them off. "You've got to get a few hours of rest, Horatio. You owe it to Bill to be thinking straight. You'll find him faster that way." She set the shoes aside and looked up at his face. He knew she was right, but he still felt guilty about it. "There's nothing wrong with hitting your limit, Horatio. Everybody does."

"Yes, but not everybody has lives hanging in the balance."

She stood, picking up his feet and shifting them over onto the bed. "You'll find him, Horatio." She was sure of that; she only prayed that Bill would still be alive. If he died, a third officer would follow, then a fourth, for as long as the criminal was free, and this case would kill Horatio if it extended for many more rounds. She started unbuttoning Horatio's shirt. He tried to help, and she pushed his fingers away. "Just let me deal with everything tonight, including my mother and Rosalind. Don't worry about it. You've got to let it go for a little while." She planted her hand on his bare chest, gently pushing him down onto the bed. With a soft sigh, he surrendered, handing her the responsibility for a few hours, and she realized the enormity of the gift from him. There was no one else he would have trusted that much in the middle of this investigation.

As there was no one else she would have trusted that much, had their roles been reversed.

Calleigh finished undressing him, then pulled the sheet and blanket up. She went around to her side and climbed in next to him to hold him until he was asleep. "Is the Tylenol helping?" she asked.

"Some." His eyes were already half closed. His body absolutely craved sleep at this point, even though she knew his mind would limit him to the bare minimum required. She pulled his head over against her, wrapping her arms around it gently, trying to touch away the remnants of pain. "I'm so sorry, Cal," he said distantly.

She kissed him. "For what? If you're still worried about walking out tonight, don't be."

"No. For what you had to go through as a child. Wish I'd been there."

Calleigh stared at him, caught again in pure wonder at the man. "I wish you had, too, Handsome. We could have run away together." His answering chuckle faded halfway. He was too tired to lie awake tonight. She held him, loving him with her eyes but also measuring how tightly drawn the lines of his face were. He had lost weight the last few weeks, in spite of all of her efforts. She prayed that this case would be over soon. She had never known an investigation that stretched him so far and then sustained it for so long, and she knew he was dangerously close to the limit. Yet she also knew he would never back off until Bill was either rescued or avenged along with Steve. The most she could do was take the burden from him for the few hours that he would surrender it.

She lay there long after she was sure he was asleep, hating to open that door onto the world. She had to get up, though. She needed to check on Rosalind, and she also needed to check on her mother. Duty lost to preference for a long time, but she couldn't ignore it forever. Finally, she slipped carefully out of bed, moving the pillow over to take the place of her arm. Horatio never stirred. Calleigh picked up the tray, switched off the light, and opened the bedroom door.

The house was eerily silent. She tiptoed across the hall to the nursery first and watched Rosalind sleep for several minutes, postponing the inevitable. Finally, she went down the hall, bracing herself for the status report her mother would demand. The house was still silent, though, and looking around the living room, she quickly realized why.

Her purse lay on its side, unzipped, in its appointed place. Calleigh's keys hung from the open door of the liquor cabinet, the key that her mother had seen her use last night still in the lock. Her mother sprawled on the couch, snoring softly, her mouth dangling half open, her hands still clutching an empty champagne bottle. She had been privately celebrating Horatio and Calleigh's reconciliation.

Torn between relief, disgust, and pity, Calleigh fetched a blanket and draped it over her. She tried to remove the bottle, but her mother's hands were absolutely locked, refusing to surrender her prize. Calleigh gave up and went over to close and relock the liquor cabinet. As she turned away, her eye was caught by the picture of Rosalind, Horatio's mother, that stood once again in its place on the piano. The cosmic unfairness of it all hit her anew. "Why couldn't it be my parents who were killed and Horatio's who lived?" she demanded of the silent room.

A shudder suddenly ran through her as her mind followed that thought. She pictured her own father killed in a car accident when she was seven and her mother raising her alone for 10 years. She would have wound up insane herself. As disappointing as her father was, it was he in his sober moments, not her mother, who had taught Calleigh what few positive lessons she had learned from her childhood. He had been the better parent. Those years alone with her mother would have been a prison sentence. Then at the end, to find her own mother beaten beyond recognition, to be left as the oldest, not the youngest, with her brothers depending on her. Replace all of that with the same losses with loving parents. The reality of Horatio's childhood suddenly flooded over her again, and her wish now was the same but for his sake, not hers.

Wishes didn't change reality, though. Not for Calleigh, at least. This drunken, deluded wreck was still her mother, her family, and to the best of Jean's ability, she had loved her children. It wasn't her fault she was mentally ill. Calleigh pitied her, resented her, and ran from her, but she could not hate her. She leaned forward and tucked the blanket in around the edges in a pathetic reversal of the standard parent-child roles. "Good night, Mother," she sighed.

She looked in again on Rosalind, sleeping sweetly, then went back into their bedroom, undressing in the dark. She rolled in under the covers and snuggled down next to Horatio. He was still asleep, unable to resist rest for the moment. She kissed him and spoke very softly, a storm of tears suddenly threatening. "I'm so sorry, Horatio, for what you had to go through as a child. I wish I'd been there for you, too."

Sleep was creeping up around the edges of her consciousness when Horatio stirred uneasily. Calleigh pulled him a little more closely to her, wrapping him securely in her arms. She wondered what he was dreaming about this time. Bill or Steve, probably, maybe leading from there back to his many other losses. "Shhh," she whispered, trying to avoid waking him up. "I'm here, Horatio."

He twisted, his hands clenching. "Calleigh." Her name was ripped from the fabric of his dream, and she started to reply, then realized that he wasn't calling her, after all. "You aren't going to hurt her again. I won't let you hurt Calleigh anymore."

The tears broke through and slid in warm tracks down her face. As if his own weren't enough, he was having her nightmares. She pulled him closer still, drying her face on his hair. "Horatio, you already saved me. You don't have to do it again. I'm here with you, not with them." She squeezed him tightly, and the grip somehow squeezed the nightmare back into just a dream. He settled down. "Calleigh," he murmured, and that time, it was addressed to her. "I'm here, Horatio," she repeated with soft intensity. "I'm with you. You already saved me." His arms came around her, and he slipped back into deeper sleep for the moment. Calleigh lay there for a long time awake, and the slow, silent tears somehow wouldn't quite stop, but that was okay. They were no longer tears of regret.


	9. Caine Mutiny 9

Chapter 9 of the Caine Mutiny. I couldn't sleep, so I got up at 2:00 to write instead of 4:30 as usual. Fair trade: I'll sleep tonight after work instead of writing as intended. Hope you enjoy it. Deb

IMPORTANT: Please remember that in the Fearful Symmetry series, Stetler does not exist. I wouldn't want to give Stetler any more air time than he deserves. In fact, I feel that way about one other character on CSIM, too, which is why you hardly ever see her in FS, either.

(H/C)

"The solving of almost every crime mystery depends on something which seems, at the first glance, to bear no relation whatever to the original crime."

Elsa Barker

(H/C)

Eric thought he arrived at CSI early the next morning, but Horatio was earlier. At least, Eric hoped Horatio was earlier and wasn't just still there. He was wearing different clothes, though. He must have gone home at some point. "Good morning, H," he said.

"Let us hope so," Horatio replied. Eric, studying him surreptitiously, was reminded of a rubber band stretched out to painful lengths. How much longer could he take this? This case was hard on everyone, but watching Horatio obsessively count the minutes in which they didn't find Bill, the whole team was acutely worried about him. They had never seen him drive himself this hard, and the possibility of him crumbling under the pressure, once unthinkable, now seemed more likely than the possibility of solving the case before it came to that.

"Find anything more on the abduction scene, Eric?" Horatio asked.

"No, but I came in early to rerun what I had. There was just a little blood from Bill, H. Most of it was from Argo."

"Oh, I'm sure Bill's still alive. Right now, anyway." Horatio suddenly came to attention, looking past Eric, and Eric turned to see Captain Martin standing in the doorway. "Has there been something new, sir?" Had the perp stepped up to two officers at a time? It was really odd for the captain to be at CSI, especially first thing in the morning.

The captain looked from one of them to the other. "No, not directly involving the case. Horatio, could I have a word with you?"

"Certainly." Horatio didn't stir a step from the evidence table. The captain glanced at Eric again. "Eric's doing a job here, and my people know everything I do on this investigation. Go ahead." Eric hesitated, wondering if he should go for a tactful cup of coffee, and Horatio shook his head. "Get to work, Eric. It's okay." Eric stepped over to the next table and spread out the scant evidence from the abduction scene. His ears were less disciplined than his eyes and stayed focused on the conversation.

"There's been a complaint filed against you," Captain Martin stated.

Horatio was startled. "Regarding what? I haven't even been close enough to anybody to offend them on this case."

"Connor Stapleton. The commissioner called me early this morning. He'd already heard extensively from Stapleton's lawyer and also his brother, as well as IAB. Stapleton's brother is a senator, you know, and Stapleton himself has more money than he can count. They're a powerful family."

Horatio looked at him squarely. "I entered through an open gate, immediately informed the family I was there, conducted a search with full permission, and as soon as he asked me to leave, I did. He has nothing to complain about."

"I know. I've been reviewing the reports from yesterday for you and Tripp. Technically, you did nothing wrong, but Stapleton isn't happy."

"I'm sure he isn't. Fortunately, making the spoiled rich happy isn't one of my goals in life." Behind them, Eric's shoulders quivered slightly, and he bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"The thing is, he thinks that this is tied in with that case involving his son from a year ago. He was complaining about us searching for evidence on a case that's already been tried."

"That wasn't why I was there. We didn't have enough for a warrant, but we did have enough to want to talk to Chip. There's evidence that the killer is somehow exposed to orchids."

"From what I read, there's evidence that somebody who handled that letter is exposed to orchids. Not necessarily the killer."

"I've got to consider the possibility that it's the killer. We follow the evidence, and yesterday, it led me to Stapleton's estate."

Captain Martin sighed. "Trying to talk to Chip was justified. Searching the whole estate without stating any reason was pushing it."

"I had permission," Horatio insisted.

"I know. We're backing you up. However, I also have special orders to pass along. Unless there is direct, incontrovertible evidence linking Stapleton to this case, we are to leave Stapleton alone. You are not to question the family, and you are not to go back out there without a warrant."

Horatio's voice was icy. "If I do get direct evidence, am I still allowed to do my job?"

"Of course. Any warrant request regarding Stapleton or his family, though, is going to be looked at with a fine-toothed comb, so it had better be rock solid. I'm sorry, Horatio. Do you really think that Stapleton is involved in this?"

Horatio's eyes went back to the printouts and the letters on the table. "I don't know. I think that someone in that household might be, but I'll admit, it's circumstantial. I didn't find anything conclusive, but that was hardly a thorough search. We do at least know that the family has a grudge against Narcotics, and Mrs. Stapleton raises orchids. Furthermore, three people there wear size 10 shoes, although I didn't find a set to match the print on the letter. I didn't get a chance to inspect the shoes they had on. I also could have missed a pair; I rushed the end of the search, as did Calleigh and Tripp."

"Knowing that you were there against Stapleton's wishes and that he was about to kick you off," the captain pointed out.

"I hadn't heard him say it yet, sir," Horatio replied innocently. "I'm not a mind reader."

The captain grinned for just a second before his well-schooled features resumed their stern expression. "Remember, Chip got off with community service. That would be a pretty out-of-proportion grudge for him or his family to be involved in this."

"Rich people have out-of-proportion grudges. Also, he only got off with community service because of his father's lawyer. Otherwise, he'd still be doing time for his involvement in that meth ring. We both know he was involved well past what he was convicted for, even if his father refuses to believe it."

Captain Martin nodded. "Knowing isn't enough sometimes, Horatio. We have to prove it. On this case, I think Stapleton or his family would be more likely to take out a contract on officers than torture them to death and play with us. Rich people also hire others to do their dirty work."

"I was following the evidence, not statistics," Horatio said stubbornly.

The captain looked at the letters himself. "I want to solve this one as much as you do. I was just talking to Monica Weaver earlier. But watch your step and stay strictly within the rules on anything involving Stapleton, okay?"

Horatio turned back to his letters. "I'll just have to get more proof, then. There has to be more proof, either for someone in that family or whoever the killer is. It's here somewhere." He plunged back into reviews, redoing the analysis, forgetting that his supervisor was still there. Captain Martin stood there briefly watching him, then turned away.

"Eric," Horatio said after five minutes, "when you're done with what you're doing, run a check on all of Chip Stapleton's known acquaintances, including anybody involved in that drug ring from a year ago, and see if you can find a connection to an Explorer. Also a background check on all members of that household, including the gardener, for any priors and for an Explorer."

"You got it, H." Eric didn't mention the warning, and neither did Horatio.

(H/C)

"Miami Shakespeare Society, may I help you?"

Horatio put on his silkiest tone. "I was calling to ask for information on membership in your club. Could you mail me an application?"

"Certainly. May I have your name and address, please?" Horatio gave it to her, leaving off any title and giving his home address. "Horatio! Are you named out of Hamlet?"

"Actually, no, but my mother was named out of As You Like It."

"Let me guess, Rosalind, right? What a great character! I saw that play last spring. You know, Hamlet was just put on at the University a month ago."

"I'd heard that," Horatio replied. "Unfortunately, I missed it."

"I went two nights. Such a wonderful production. Their Horatio was superb. How did you hear about the society, Mr. Caine?"

"I overheard someone discussing Shakespeare clubs. She was one of your members, I think. Mrs. Connor Stapleton."

"Oh, yes, Alicia. She's one of our most active members. Should I tell her you called?"

"No, why don't you just let me surprise her at a meeting."

The woman giggled like a teenager, although she sounded at least 40. "Oh, that would be fun, wouldn't it?" Horatio wondered how much of her enthusiasm would still be there at 5:00 that afternoon. Probably most of it, he thought.

"Do you know if she was able to see Hamlet a month ago?"

"Yes, but not a night I was there. We did discuss the cuts they made later. Most people cut something out of the play; it's so long, you know, but people never can agree exactly what should get left out. Now, the University cut out some of the scenes referring to Fortinbras, including Hamlet meeting the soldier on the plains, but we both thought that made it surprising at the end when Fortinbras turns up. He'd been mentioned right at the beginning, then nothing more until that last scene. Now, if I was doing it, I wouldn't cut anything. Four hours isn't too long when it's Shakespeare."

The Narcotics secretary paused tentatively in the door and waved an envelope. "I appreciate your helpfulness, but I'm afraid I have to go," Horatio said. "Someone just came into my office."

"Oh, sure, I understand. Have a great day, Horatio." She even hung up the phone enthusiastically.

The secretary came into the office and handed him the letter. "Sorry, Lieutenant. Was I interrupting something?"

"Not at all. I was working on this case anyway." He put on gloves and took the envelope, and she automatically picked up an evidence envelope and signed for it.

"Are we getting any closer?" she asked tentatively.

"Every letter gets us closer," Horatio assured her, wishing he believed it. "The one yesterday had trace evidence in the shoe print. Maybe this one has something on it, too."

She stared at her hands, which were fiddling with the pen she'd picked up to sign the evidence envelope. "I knew them," she said softly. "Steve always asked how I was when he came in in the mornings, and he really meant it, too. Bill knew everybody's family, kids and all, and he even remembered the ages."

"You still know Bill," Horatio said firmly.

She put down the pen. "Right. I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I'll leave you to it."

"It's okay." Horatio gave her a strained smile. "I knew Steve, too, and I've known Bill for 30 years. We went to school together. I understand what you mean."

She returned the smile. "Thank you. I know you're doing your best. You'll find this killer."

"I won't quit until I do," Horatio vowed, all the gentleness vanishing from his tone. She nodded, totally believing him, and left the office.

Horatio studied the letter thoroughly. No footmark this time. He opened it and removed the message. 'O proud Death.' It was from the last scene of Hamlet again, the remark made by Fortinbras when he enters to find practically everybody at the court dead.

Hamlet again. The killer still hadn't used any other play. Who had accompanied Mrs. Stapleton to see Hamlet a month ago? The secretary of the Shakespeare society couldn't help him there, and he wasn't allowed to ask Mrs. Stapleton. Size 10 shoes in three rooms. Probably Chip, Stapleton himself, and Mitchell, the brother. The gardener was most likely the size 12 shoes in the separate room on the top floor. He wouldn't be on the same hall with the family. Horatio couldn't picture any of the three from his scant observations voluntarily attending Shakespeare plays, but he still thought that this perp had accidentally stumbled across Hamlet, had been somewhere out of his usual circles but already plotting revenge when he was seized by Shakespeare's incredible grasp of the human mind. Had one of them gone with Alicia Stapleton to the play? Horatio wasted three minutes and 18 seconds pondering that question before he stood up to go find Speed.

(H/C)

"No, ma'am, I'm sure they're beautiful, but we really don't need to see any more. Thank you." Horatio turned away, flanked by Tripp and Calleigh, as the woman they had been talking to looked miffed that the police hadn't wanted to inspect all of her prize-winning orchids individually. And why on earth had that redhead wondered if she'd been to see Hamlet last month?

The three climbed into the Hummer, and Horatio picked up the list from the middle console. Four names, four possible matches between the South Florida Orchid Society membership and the names of ex-cons. He scratched the last name off with such a vicious slash that his pen went through the paper. "So much for that," he said. "Waste of a morning."

"Not wasting time to rule out suspects," Tripp pointed out.

"True," Horatio conceded. He immediately looked at his watch. "We're wasting time now, though. Maybe there's something new back at CSI." He started the Hummer and pulled out into the street.

Calleigh studied her own watch and turned slightly to look at Tripp in the back seat. He checked the time himself, and their eyes met silently, then shifted to Horatio in unison, then back to each other. Tripp deferred, and Calleigh took the plunge. "Actually, Horatio, it's lunch time. If we get something now, we won't have to take time to eat once we get back to CSI."

"I'm not hungry," he said, eyes glued to the traffic.

Again, Calleigh and Tripp held a brief, silent conference. "Well, even if you aren't, I am," Calleigh said. "Aren't you getting hungry, Frank?"

"Starving," Tripp replied. "I missed breakfast."

Horatio grinned suddenly. "Don't admit that in front of Calleigh. She'll start calling you every morning and tracking you down at work for an update. She thinks I'd starve to death if she didn't remind me to eat." The grin shattered as the reference to starving to death instantly knocked him back to Steve's funeral, the already-occupied grave, and the spinning clock at the end of the waiting casket. His hands tightened up sharply, gripping a coffin, and the Hummer swerved.

"Horatio!" Calleigh grabbed the wheel, jerking the vehicle back into their lane. "Are you okay?"

Horatio took a deep breath and forced his hands to relax. The lapse had only been for a second. "Fine," he replied. Calleigh and Tripp were both staring at him intently, not looking anywhere close to convinced, and he tried to shake off their concern by compromising. "I guess we could hit a drive-through on the way back to CSI and eat while we drive. We could at least use the time at stoplights that way. What did you want for lunch, Cal? Frank?"

It took a minute to start thinking about the question. Somehow, neither Calleigh nor Tripp was hungry anymore.

(H/C)

Back at CSI, they found Eric in the break room munching a sandwich. He tried to eat faster as he saw Horatio come in, and Horatio, who had been agitated at spending eight minutes and six seconds in line at a drive-through just a while ago, said, "Take it easy, Eric. You've been working all morning; you deserve to eat your sandwich in peace." Calleigh and Tripp looked at each other in exasperation.

"Got something," Eric mumbled with his mouth full.

Horatio instantly dropped the casual air. "Find an Explorer?"

Eric shook his head as he crammed the last bite of sandwich in. "Background checks." He swallowed hard and took a few gulps of his soft drink. "There's something weird there, H. Most of the people in Chip's drug ring are still inside. He's probably got new ones. Stapleton is a hard-nosed rich jerk, but we knew that. The weird one is Mitchell."

"Mrs. Stapleton's brother?" Horatio called him up mentally. He'd been standing in the background in the door behind Stapleton. They had only seen him for a minute.

"Right. He got a traffic ticket two months ago for speeding."

"Got lots of company," Tripp commented.

"Yeah. What caught me first was that he just paid it. Stapleton, for instance, got one eight months ago. He went to traffic court with his high-powered lawyer and nearly cost the poor cop his job. Had the judge totally convinced it was unfair and that the cop went after Stapleton knowing who he was, not because he was speeding."

"That's Stapleton, all right," Calleigh said. "Mitchell's only related by marriage, though. He might not quite share the family jerk gene."

"I know, but it just looked a bit odd. Somebody from that family not even going to court on it. So I started digging on Mitchell."

"What did you find?" Horatio asked, shivering slightly at the reference to digging.

"Nothing except that one traffic ticket."

Tripp frowned. "Nothing?"

"Nothing at all. No entry in any database. He's never owned a house, never had utilities, never had a Florida driver's license until four months ago, never had a job that I could tell. Furthermore, I can't find a record that Mrs. Stapleton even has a brother. There isn't complete information on her family, but no brother is mentioned in what little there is. Lots of things aren't in the system, I know, but the average citizen has a file a hundred times longer than this."

Horatio was totally focused now, remembering Mitchell. "He doesn't match the description on any of our missing parolees. He might be the one who delivered that first letter on the video, but between the oversized jacket and the baseball cap, we hardly got anything to go on. It could fit any of the three actually, Stapleton, Chip, or Mitchell. That video is almost useless as evidence."

"Could be a third of Miami," Tripp agreed. "Hell, it could even fit Speedle."

"What?" Speed himself entered the break room.

"Nothing," Tripp said.

Speed was too intent at the moment to be very curious. He quickly turned to Horatio. "H, I got something else from the latest letter. Trace from a leaf from a Japanese maple tree. He probably stepped on a leaf, then pulled it off his shoe with his hands before he picked up the stencil. They're popular as ornamentals, but it rules out most of the population of Miami."

"But not," Horatio said, "the Stapletons. There was a Japanese maple tree in their front yard." His eyes sprang to life.

"Still circumstantial," Eric said. "My mother has a Japanese maple tree. Lots of people do."

"How many people do you suppose have both a Japanese maple tree and orchids?" Horatio pointed out. "That, I believe, would be a much smaller field. Between the orchids, the shoes, Mitchell's lack of background, the Japanese maple, the video not ruling Mitchell out, the family grudge against Narcotics, and Mrs. Stapleton seeing Hamlet, I think it's a good circumstantial case for a warrant to really search that estate." He sighed. "At least, it would be if Stapleton didn't own two banks and his brother weren't a senator. Come on, Tripp, let's go cut some red tape."

Calleigh bounded after him, catching him by the elbow. "I'll come along with you."

He smiled at her enthusiasm, but he shook his head. "Cal, they're going to challenge this one. The captain told me they would. I have to try, but it won't be a quick process, and having you with me during all of it would be wasting time for one of us. Why don't you look at the video again, and you and Eric can keep chasing Mitchell. You might turn up something that would help add to my case, and you can call me."

It made sense, but she hated letting him out of her sight at the moment. His lapse while driving earlier had convinced her that he was just about to snap. Tripp, standing behind Horatio, looked at her with a wordless pledge, and she reluctantly gave in. "Okay, but don't you dare go serve a warrant on Stapleton without me."

"If we get it, I'll call you before I go out there. Promise," he said. "Let's go, Tripp."

(H/C)

Judge Hawkins studied the notes in front of him and shook his head. "It's purely circumstantial. We're not even sure that the orchids go with the killer, and that's the most unique evidence you've got. Given Stapleton's attitude, we have to have more to go on than this."

Horatio came to his feet abruptly. "Given Stapleton's bank account, you mean."

Judge Hawkins stiffened up. "Are you implying that I hold the rich above the law? This isn't really a strong case, Horatio, for anybody. All you have is a lack of background on Mitchell, who might or might not be the man in the video, plus Japanese maple trees and Hamlet. I'm not counting the orchids or size 10 shoes."

"Chip eats Three Musketeers bars, and Calleigh said that somebody reads Agatha Christie," Horatio offered.

The judge gave him an incredulous look. "Are you offering that as evidence for a warrant?"

Captain Martin stood up from his chair in front of the judge's desk. "It is a long string of coincidences if they aren't involved. Remember, Judge, there's a man's life at stake here." A cell phone rang, and Tripp, in a chair at the side of the room, fished his out and answered it.

Judge Hawkins reread the list. "If I could be absolutely sure on the orchids – but I can't. It could be a postal worker. That was on the exterior envelope, not the message. I do realize the urgency on the case, but Stapleton has already objected to us not following procedure, with some justification from his point of view. If this isn't absolutely airtight on a warrant, he'll sue all of us."

"How did we switch from talking about Bill's life to talking about personal lawsuits?" Horatio asked icily. Captain Martin shot him a warning look, then turned as Tripp hung up.

"Got something new, Tripp?"

"Traffic patrol picked up Bill's car. Driver has three priors on grand theft auto. I'll go question him, but it's the same story about the car as with Steve. Want to come along, H?"

Horatio shook his head. "Talking to another car thief who found an opportunity and took it is almost as much of a waste of time as trying to get a warrant against Stapleton. I'll go back to CSI and go over everything. Again."

The judge stood up behind his desk. "I am sorry, Horatio. Bring me some concrete evidence, and I'll have a warrant in no time. For the moment, though, until there is more, we have to back off Stapleton. My hands are tied. You don't understand the power of politics."

"I understand it perfectly," Horatio insisted. "Poly means many in Latin, and ticks are little bloodsucking creatures." He spun gracefully around and walked out of the room.

The captain trailed him. "Horatio!" Horatio stopped and waited. "Don't make me pull you off this investigation."

Defiant fire flared up in Horatio's eyes, though his voice was still pure ice. "With all due respect, sir, you couldn't do it." He turned his back on him and continued toward the elevator.

The captain looked at Tripp, who was about two feet behind him, a picture of expressionless concern. "Keep an eye on him." The tone was much more worried than angry.

"Already am," Tripp replied.

(H/C)

Horatio entered the break room late that afternoon, suddenly wanting a cup of coffee. That at least was something that he could accomplish without a warrant. The frustration was visible in his stride, and Speed and Tyler, already in the break room, eyed him warily and fell silent. Guilt of a different flavor stabbed through him. His people had poured their lives into this investigation the last few weeks. They didn't deserve a boss whose moods they could no longer trust. He gave them both a forced smile, but it was a smile. "It's okay, gentlemen. You've more than earned a break for a few minutes." He headed on past them to the coffee pot and missed the open concern as their eyes followed his back.

A new pot was still running, and Horatio got out his mug and stood waiting for it to finish, carefully checking the time. Behind him, the low conversation on the couch had started up again. No radio had played here since the day he had unintentionally broken Valera's, but the TV was on, some nature program. He was glad they weren't watching the news. Probably they could have written the headlines as well as Horatio could. Two words would sum it up on this case: No progress. The media would never leave it at two words, though.

Alexx entered. Like Calleigh, she could change the atmosphere of an entire room with her presence, but while Calleigh was sunlit energy, Alexx was warmly soothing, easing stress, giving comfort. Everyone relaxed a few notches. She stopped beside Horatio and looked at him, the only person besides Calleigh who would study him openly anymore. "You didn't get anywhere with the warrant, did you?"

He sighed. "No. Not enough evidence, he says. Purely circumstantial. The trouble is, he's right. It's a guess, no more." It didn't even strike him as odd that Alexx was up to date on the case.

She touched his arm briefly. "You'll find more, then. You always do, Horatio."

He wished he shared her confidence. The coffee finished running after two minutes and six seconds, and Horatio pulled the pot out and started pouring. Alexx had stepped away a few feet to get her own mug. Behind them, the TV continued its impersonal, informative drone, and one sentence leaped out of the set and struck his mind like a bolt of lightning, changing the entire landscape of the case with one blinding flash.

Horatio froze, the pot still tilted. The coffee filled the cup, flowed over the top, and ran over his other hand, and he didn't even feel the burn until Alexx reacted.

"Horatio!" He stared blankly at the counter and the overfilled cup, then carefully returned the pot to its place. He started to reach for the paper towels, but Alexx captured him by the wrist. "Run your hand under cold water. It will stop the burning." She dragged him to the sink, turned the faucet on, and thrust his hand under it. The cold water was soothing, easing pain that hadn't totally registered yet. Alexx had gone back to get the paper towels herself, and he started to move to help her. "Stay there," she ordered. "Keep holding it under the water for a minute."

"It's my mess. I'll clean it up."

She let the paper towels soak up the puddle while she turned back to face him. "Horatio, you've spent most of your life cleaning up messes for other people. This once, you can stand there and let me deal with it."

He grinned at the parental tone. "Yes, ma'am," he said meekly. She finished mopping up the spilt coffee and came back over to him, holding his still-too-full cup carefully in front of her. She set it down on the counter next to the sink, turned off the water, and looked at his hand. It was slightly red but not too bad. "Convinced I'll live, Alexx?"

She gently patted his hand dry with a towel, letting that comment pass. The burn was minor, but her overall concern for him wasn't. She looked back up at him finally when she could no longer pretend to be taking care of his hand. "What happened there?"

"I just thought of something new. A different approach, maybe." He stalled, not wanting to go into details. "I was so busy thinking that line out that I forgot I was pouring the coffee."

She was instantly hopeful. "Is it promising?" They were overdue for a big break on this case.

"Might be. It needs some more thought." He was deliberately vague. He started out the door, wanting to escape her perception, and she called him back.

"Don't forget your coffee, Horatio."

"Right." He picked up the cup and carefully took a sip to lower the level of the liquid, then flinched as it hit his tongue. "It's hot."

Alexx rolled her eyes. "Glad you finally noticed that."

He gave her a distracted smile, his mind already off on whatever new trail he was working. "Thank you, Alexx." He left the break room, leaving one puzzled ME and two puzzled CSIs staring after him.

Horatio walked back through CSI toward his office, his mind racing ahead of him. It might well cost him his job. It might save Bill's life. He balanced those two arguments, and the scales tipped way over.

He sat down behind his desk, put down the coffee, and picked up the phone. The number was memorized long since. He had called it several times a day to report that there was nothing to report.

"Hello?" Her voice was tense, afraid of what the phone might tell her, yet afraid not to know.

"Monica, it's Horatio."

"Anything?" One word that spoke volumes.

"Nothing definite, but I've got a new angle I'd like to try. How's Argo?"

The question mark came out of the receiver and hovered in the air over his desk. "How's Argo? You called me to ask about Argo?"

"How's his leg? Can he walk? Monica, I have to know. This really is important. Trust me, okay?"

She did trust him, though she still sounded puzzled. "He can walk, but he's limping. He's going to be fine in a week or two. It was just a flesh wound, the vet said, and it doesn't seem to be getting infected. Horatio, what's going on?"

Horatio unclipped his badge from his belt and put it on his desk, staring at it. "I'd like to take Argo out for a walk tonight. I'm going to break into Connor Stapleton's estate after dark, against orders, without a warrant, and have the dog search every inch for Bill. And I promise you, Monica, if he's there, this time, I'm not leaving without him."


	10. Caine Mutiny 10

Chapter 10 of the Caine Mutiny. Not proofread; just wedged between work and a promise. More soon. Deb

(H/C)

"Believing where we cannot prove."

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(H/C)

Eight minutes and three seconds later, Horatio hung up the phone. He carefully centered his badge on the frontdesk edge and studied it, searching himself for any second thoughts. There were none. He couldn't possibly get permission through official channels for this. If another life was lost, he would at least know that this time, he had done everything he could.

"Knock, knock, knock." Calleigh stood in the doorway. "How's it going, Handsome?"

"No luck on the warrant. They've tied my hands here, Cal. I can, of course, come back later with more evidence, if we can find it."

She came across to the desk and dropped into one of the chairs in front of it, wanting the opportunity to face him on the same level, even if across a barrier. Alexx had called her a few minutes ago, suggesting that she check up on him, and Calleigh knew instantly now from his eyes that the ME had been right. Something major had happened. "So nothing new?" She left the door open invitingly, waiting to see if he would enter it without being pushed.

"No new evidence. The team will just have to keep going over what we have, I guess."

So much for the voluntary approach. "You're lying, Horatio."

His prowling eyes focused suddenly, tightly. "That wasn't a lie, Cal."

"Maybe not technically, but it was deliberately misleading. You're onto something."

"Now what makes you think that?"

"Horatio, I've been married to you for two years and loved you from a distance for several before that. You can't hide from me anymore." His eyes flinched away from hers and were magnetically drawn to his desk again. Calleigh deliberately played the hurt feelings card, knowing that would jolt him. Anything to crack that wall, although she'd beat it down by force if she had to. "I had thought you didn't want to hide from me anymore. Was I wrong?"

He looked back up at her, the battle visible on his face. "No, you weren't. But this is something I have to work out by myself, Calleigh."

Her shoes hit the floor with a sharp, determined snap like the safety on a gun being pulled back as she stood and leaned across the desk, angry now and letting him know it. "Damn it, Horatio Caine, I'm your wife, your equal partner. Stop trying to protect me." A lab tech walking along the corridor outside hesitated at the raised voice, then sped up, ostentatiously not looking into the boss's office. Calleigh didn't much care, but she knew Horatio did. She stalked to the door and closed it, carefully closing the blinds as well, then turned back, taking dead aim on him. "You are not getting out of this office until you talk to me. I don't care if it takes until midnight. We're wasting time, Horatio, and how much we waste is up to you, so start counting the minutes."

His eyes leaped almost convulsively to his watch. The second hand was sweeping around, like the minute hand on the end of Steve's coffin in his nightmares. He shuddered, tried to wrench his gaze away from it, and could not, hypnotized by those lost minutes. Calleigh sat back down, wishing she hadn't mentioned counting minutes. She'd meant to sting him, but her words had been a bullet of much larger caliber than she had intended. He looked absolutely haunted, and she knew she had lost the connection with his mind. He was trapped somewhere else without her. "Horatio." Her voice gradually called him back, and he finally looked up. "Talk to me, Horatio." She sat as tall as she could in the chair, still as determined but a bit less ruthless, and held him firmly with her eyes.

The silence lengthened until he finally broke it. "I'm not trying to protect you; I'm trying to protect Rosalind." It was a low plea for understanding, begging her to accept it and leave it there.

"Rosalind?" She hadn't expected that. "What on earth does Rosalind have to do with this case?" His eyes returned to the badge, and she suddenly noticed that he wasn't wearing it any longer. "Horatio, what are you going to do?" He picked up a pen, twirling it through his fingers. He never fidgeted, but he was now. "You're going back to that estate, aren't you? Without a warrant, unofficially. We already searched it, Horatio."

"Not as well as we could have." He met her eyes again. "We could have missed a secret compartment, and we definitely could have missed the shoes and the stencil."

She was still looking at him like he had lost his mind. "You think you can do a better job while trespassing in the dark? Horatio, I really think it's time you got off this case. You're not thinking straight anymore."

"I was in the break room a while ago, and there was a nature program on TV, talking about dogs and how well they could track their masters. I'm going back there tonight with Argo after everyone's asleep. He knows something's happened to Bill. If he picks up his scent anywhere on that estate, he'll find him."

Calleigh stared at him. "Horatio, you've always said the evidence will speak for itself. We haven't got the evidence. The captain even gave you a direct order to back off. You could lose your job for this. You might even get yourself killed out there; we already know Stapleton has guns. He'd be within his rights shooting a possible burglar in the dark."

"That," he replied, "is why I didn't tell you. Rosalind needs at least one parent."

"She needs her father, Horatio. And what about tonight? Did you think I just wouldn't notice you disappear for hours?"

He gave her a sheepish grin. "Honestly, Cal, I hadn't worked it out that far yet. I was thinking of Bill, then Rosalind. I've only had the idea for 20 minutes, and I was talking to Monica for most of that."

"Horatio, this is crazy. I don't think we could have missed Bill, even in a hurry. Even if someone in the family is involved, they're probably holding Bill somewhere else. Mrs. Stapleton obviously didn't know anything. It wouldn't be safe to keep him right there under her nose."

He had his dead-set stubborn look. "Cal, I can't think of a safer place to do this than on the secured estate of a powerful man with a well-known grudge against the police. If they're involved, Bill is there. He has to be. We must have just missed him, but Argo won't."

Logic wasn't getting her anywhere. "You can forget about it, Horatio. I'm not letting you do this."

"I'm still your supervisor, Calleigh. I decide what directions we take next in the investigation."

She couldn't believe he'd played that card. "Not any more. If you aren't following department regulations, I'm not required to take your orders on the work. In fact, I ought to go straight to IAB the minute you leave. I think I will. I'm sure they'd be interested, especially after what Captain Martin told you this morning."

It was his turn to feel betrayed. "Cal, I have to do this. I couldn't live with myself if I let this chance pass and Bill died."

"But you don't know Bill's there, Horatio. You may think so, but you said yourself Stapleton's attitude didn't quite fit, and the evidence that we have just isn't strong enough to throw your career away for."

His hand tightened on the pen until it snapped, bleeding ink onto a notepad. He didn't notice. "I am not going to dig another friend's grave. One is enough."

The fierce, literal emphasis on the words startled her. Guilt she understood, even though she disagreed that he was at fault, but for a moment, she had the impression that he wasn't speaking figuratively. "Dig another friend's grave? You didn't dig the first one, Horatio. That was the killer, not you."

His eyes fell, dodging hers, and he noticed the bleeding pen. He pulled the top few pages, thankfully blank, from the notepad, shrouded the pen's bent corpse carefully, and threw it into the trash. It landed with a thump at the bottom of the empty metal can. Buried. Like Steve. Horatio shivered, and he looked back up, his eyes seeking Calleigh's as urgently as they had avoided hers just seconds ago. She was watching him with puzzled concern. "That's the dream," he said softly, then trailed off. He couldn't go on.

There was no need for him to. "You have to dig Steve's grave? You mean literally?" In all of her guesses, none had approached that. Horatio nodded silently. She reached across the desk, bridging the barrier between them, and gripped both of his hands warmly in hers. Neither of them said anything for a minute.

"That isn't all." Horatio's voice startled him. "I'm digging, but I keep running into coffins that are already there." Her hands tightened around his. He didn't list the names. She could fill those in as well as he could. "There's a clock on the end of the casket that's spinning like crazy, and the whole funeral party is standing around waiting for me to get done."

She recalled Steve's funeral, where he had been staring at the grave. At least she had been there for him. Wait a minute. "What am I doing? If it's the funeral, I'm there, right?"

He looked at her hands, gripping his securely. "You're there at the beginning. You're the only one who doesn't blame me for the delay. But then, you just sort of vanish. You aren't there while I'm digging."

Her hands tightened almost painfully. "Horatio Caine, surely you could come up with something better than that. You know what would happen if it was real, don't you?"

He half smiled suddenly, the image for once not gruesome. "There was only one shovel, Cal."

"You didn't look hard enough. I'd be right there, digging with you." She released the pressure of her hands back to a mere reassuring grip. "I'm your partner, Horatio. If you really have to do something, I'll share it."

He heard the firm promise in her words. They weren't talking about dreams anymore. He met her eyes. "If anything goes wrong, somebody has to raise Rosalind. And your mother isn't the one."

Calleigh flinched at the thought. "We'll raise Rosalind together, Horatio. Just like we'll do this together. I am not staying behind while you go out there alone tonight. If you have the right to decide to do this, then so do I, and you'll need backup." They were no longer debating whether to go at all. She understood that much now, how crucial it was for him to exhaust every possibility, how unbearable another loss would be. If he didn't follow this idea and Bill died, the guilt would drive him insane. Now it was his turn to understand. He hesitated, then tightened his hands on hers, giving in.

"Okay, Cal. Maybe we'll wind up sharing a cell together after all. I suggested that to you once."

She smiled at him. "I can't think of any cell mate I'd rather have."

His strained sapphire eyes burned into hers. "Cal, if we can save Bill, I don't care if I lose my job over it. Or if we go to jail. I just don't care anymore."

She walked around the desk for the first time to join him. "Don't ever say you don't care, Horatio. You care more than anyone I've ever known. I'd be honored to share a cell with you. We can even volunteer for joint solitary confinement, and maybe the world would leave us alone for a while." She kissed him, and he slowly responded, the exhausted desperation somehow making it even more meaningful. He clung to her like a man drowning, needing her and letting her know it. From him, it was the greatest gift.

A throat cleared in the doorway. Horatio and Calleigh split apart but didn't go far. Tripp gave a self-conscious grunt. "Sorry. I did knock, but you didn't hear me. Thought there wasn't anyone here. Just wanted to leave a message. Any progress?"

"No new evidence," Calleigh stated.

"The team will just have to keep going over what we have, I guess." Horatio tried his best to sound road-blocked.

Tripp looked from one to the other of them, reading the excitement behind the front, noting the way their heads were tilted together, conspiring silently even now. "You know what? You're awful liars. Both of you."

Calleigh let a little southern indignation show. "That wasn't a lie, Frank."

"Maybe not technically, but. . ." He trailed off. He didn't have a hope of prying something out of both of them when they had teamed up against the rest of the world. "Anyway, here's the info from the car thief. Not too promising. Just like the rest of this case."

"Thank you, Frank." Horatio was courtesy itself. Tripp gave one final look from one of them to the other, then shrugged and left.

(H/C)

Jean was happily assaulting the piano when Horatio, Calleigh, and Rosalind got home. It took her a little time to disentangle herself from the piano bench, and by the time she was on her feet, they had already disappeared down the hall and into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly. Jean hovered outside and gave a tentative knock. If it weren't for Horatio's presence, she would have barged straight in. "Calleigh? Horatio?"

"We'll be out in a minute, Mother," Calleigh called through the door. "We're just changing clothes."

"Which," Horatio commented, "is perfectly true." He was rummaging through the closet and drawers, finding the darkest items they possessed that were practical enough for the evening's activities. Black shirts, black jeans, black windbreakers. Rosalind, parked on the bed, watched them curiously.

Calleigh studied the selection he had made for her. "That's perfect. I might have been thinking about breaking and entering when I bought these."

Horatio trailed his smooth touch across her cheek as he came by. "I doubt it," he replied. "You do look good in black." He started to change clothes.

Calleigh grinned at him. "I wasn't really thinking of myself when I bought them. I'm sure of that much. There were ulterior motives." She stripped off her own clothes and put on the black outfit.

Horatio was just tucking his black shirt into his black jeans. He gave her a smile at the mention of ulterior motives, but the smile faded as he buckled his gun holster on. He studied the badge but left it off.

Calleigh put her own badge on the dresser beside his. "They can wait for us here together. They might reflect light."

He refused to let himself off easily. "I can't do this with the badge, Calleigh. This isn't even borderline. If I go, it has to be on my own authority. The right against unlawful search is in the Constitution."

She gripped his arm. "And the right to life is in the Declaration of Independence. Horatio, don't beat yourself up in advance over something you've already decided to do. You're punishing yourself before IAB does, just to make sure you've been as hard on yourself as you possibly can be, and you know it won't change anything. Do you really have second thoughts about this?"

"No," he said definitely. "Even if I'm wrong, I have to know. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try this."

"Let's go, then." She picked up Rosalind from the bed and turned back to find his eyes on her.

"Thank you, Calleigh," he said.

"You're welcome, Handsome." Whether he meant for her advice or her partnership, he was more than welcome.

They opened the door. Their conversation had been deliberately low, but Jean wasn't waiting just outside. She hurried down the hall as soon as she heard them, though. "Mother," Calleigh said, "we're going out for the evening. We've decided to take your advice and get some quality time to ourselves as a family to try to fix a few problems. Will you be okay for tonight?"

Her mother preened at the mention of taking her advice. "Of course, dears, I'll be just fine. Are you taking Rosalind, too?" She didn't even notice the guns or the black working clothes, hardly the first choice for a night on the town.

"She's part of the household," Horatio stated.

"Yes, of course. Okay, kids, I won't wait up for you. Have fun!" The door closed behind them, and they had safely escaped their house.

(H/C)

Alexx opened her door and looked from one to the other of them, immediately noticing the dark clothes, the guns, and the lack of badges. "Thanks for helping us out here, Alexx," Calleigh said. "Sorry for the short notice, but we weren't about to leave Rosalind with my mother."

"I can understand that," Alexx stated, having met Calleigh's mother on a few occasions. "Come on, Rosalind. I'm always glad to have you. Never a problem, are you, honey?" She took the baby, and Rosalind, who knew Alexx perfectly well, stretched back toward her parents, nearly flipping out of Alexx's arms.

"Dada!"

Horatio took her, wrapping her in a fierce but gentle hug. "Be good, Angel. We'll be back for you soon." Calleigh took Rosalind from him, hugging her just as tightly, then handed her back to Alexx.

Horatio set the diaper bag inside the door. "Alexx, if Calleigh and I happen to get. . . delayed tonight and are out a bit later than we meant to be, take care of Rosalind for us, okay?"

"I will," Alexx promised solemnly. "You two enjoy your night out."

Calleigh impulsively hugged her friend and her daughter at the same time. "Thank you, Alexx."

Alexx stood there staring at the closed door after they left until Rosalind started to squirm. She put the baby down, and Rosalind, instead of heading deeper into the house, crawled the few feet to the door and pulled herself up on it, trying to reach the knob. Alexx picked her back up. "Oh, sweetie, they'll be back soon. It's okay. They'll be back in just a few hours."

She was trying to convince herself as well as Rosalind. It didn't work.

(H/C)

"Narc dogs have to be fairly well socialized, since they work around strangers all the time." Monica Weaver held Argo's leash in her hands, twisting it nervously. "He's met you several times when you've been over here, so he knows you're a friend of Bill's, and it's not like you'll be doing involved work with him. He's not feeling well, anyway, and that will slow him down some. I don't think you'll have much trouble with him."

"You agree that he'll react if he crosses Bill's scent out there?" Horatio asked.

"Definitely. He knows something's wrong with him. Just walk him around the buildings, and he'll let you know if he's there or if he's been there recently."

"He does know the basic commands, right? Sit, down, that sort of stuff."

"Or shut up," Calleigh put in. "That one might be helpful tonight."

"Quiet is a command. He doesn't bark on a drug search anyway, and that will probably carry over to sniffing around buildings looking for Bill. He definitely knows Bill's name; you might keep mentioning that you're looking for him. He'll figure out what he's doing. On the most basic commands, a lot of them are in German for German Shepherds. It avoids confusion; most of the perps don't speak German."

"What's the command for down? I'll try to keep him off his hurt leg as much as I can while we're waiting."

"Platz. Oh, and he is bite-trained, even though he's specialized as a narcotics dog, so it isn't used as much. Most officers on the streets in a place like Miami appreciate the extra protection. Packen is the bite command, but legally, you're supposed to warn someone three times before turning the dog loose on him."

"Legally, you're also supposed to have a warrant," Horatio pointed out. "I won't use it unless I have to, though."

"If he does get on anyone, aus is the command to make him let go. In fact, that really means stop what you're doing, so you could use it if he starts barking or whatever." She stared at the leash in her hands. "Anything else?"

"One more thing," Horatio stated. She looked the question at him. "Pray that this works out. It is a long shot, you understand. I'm not sure he's there."

Monica stepped forward and hugged him tightly. "Thank you, Horatio. For everything. Bill couldn't ask for a better friend."

He gave her a final reassuring squeeze and released her. "Keep your chin up."

She gave him a watery smile, then left the room, returning a few minutes later with the dog. Argo was traveling with a definite limp, and his shoulder was still swathed in bandages. "You remember Horatio, don't you, Argo?" Horatio held out a hand to the dog, palm down, and Argo sniffed it. "Good boy. It's all right, Argo. Go with him, now." Monica handed Horatio the leash, and Argo looked from one to the other of them, his intelligent almond eyes considering the transfer. She gave him a pat. "Go with him, Argo. It's all right. You're going to go find Bill." The dog's ears flicked at his missing master's name.

Horatio tightened up the leash. "Come on, Argo. Let's go." The dog just stared at him levelly, and Horatio looked at Monica. "What's German for heel?"

"Fuss," she provided. Horatio repeated it, and Argo fell in alongside him. Horatio shortened his stride to avoid stressing Argo's leg. With Calleigh on the other side and Monica trailing them, they headed out to the Hummer. Argo whimpered softly as Horatio lifted him into the back of the vehicle, and Monica gave him a sympathetic pat. "Platz," Horatio said, and the dog lay down on the carpeted floor. Horatio closed the rear door.

"Call me as soon as you can," Monica asked.

Horatio touched her arm lightly. "Count on it," he said. "Let's go, Calleigh."

Monica stood in the driveway looking after the Hummer until it was out of sight, then slowly headed back up the sidewalk to the empty house to start a vigil that she knew would last for hours.

(H/C)

Connor Stapleton's estate was surrounded by a chain-link fence on three sides with a high hedge planted a few feet outside it, hiding the fence from view. Chain-link fences might appear cheap, after all, and Stapleton probably had nightmares about appearing cheap. The fourth side, the side with the road, had the ornate iron fence with high spikes and the impressive set of gates, but Horatio stayed away from them. Undoubtedly, there was a camera focused on those expensive gates, since they could be operated by remote control from the house. The added risk of traffic demanded an approach from another side. Calleigh dropped off Horatio and Argo at the hedge well after dark, then drove off to hide the Hummer (as well as one could hide a Hummer) and walk back. Horatio was trying to spare Argo any more walking than was necessary on the search. He found a nice hiding place under the edge of the bushes, next to the fence, commanding a good view of the back of the big house. Lights were clearly visible in a few of the rooms. Horatio knelt next to Argo, retreating into the shadows, both of them becoming so much a part of the hedge that Calleigh, walking down the row a half hour later, didn't see them until she was almost on top of them. She climbed under the bushes to join them, and the wait began.

Argo was restless, sensing the urgency of their mission and undoubtedly still worried about Bill's absence. He started to stand. "Platz," Horatio said firmly, and the dog sank back to the ground. His defiant head stayed up, ears alert, nose testing the night. Horatio touched the dog lightly on his good shoulder. The incredible reassurance he could throw into a connection with victims flowed through his hands into the dog, and Argo relaxed, still alert but no longer tense. "Sorry about this, Argo," Horatio said softly. "You ought to be at home healing, but Bill needs you tonight."

Calleigh snuggled next to her husband against the wind, and he put one arm around her, leaving the other on the dog. The three of them waited together, resigned if not patient. "Did you ever have a dog, Horatio?" she asked softly. She'd never heard him mention a pet, but it was obvious that he had a clear connection with animals as well as people.

His body tensed up slightly next to hers, and his voice when it came was as soft and sad as the December wind moaning through the hedge around them. "I had one when I was a kid. German Shepherd, like this one. Not a police dog, of course, just a companion."

"What happened to him?"

"He was hit by a car one month before Mom died." Calleigh put her arm around him in turn, giving them a double link, and they leaned further into each other in mutual reassurance and warmth. "She was going to get me another one," Horatio continued. "We had the puppy picked out and everything, another German Shepherd like Max. We were just waiting for him to be old enough to be weaned. She was going to give him to me for my birthday."

Calleigh cringed. Horatio's 17th birthday had been four days after his mother's murder. "You couldn't take him, could you?"

He shook his head, the motion almost invisible in the dark, although she felt it. "The kennel tracked me down through the foster system. The puppy was already paid for, but I told them to keep it. They returned the money, and I tore it up into confetti and threw it in the ocean." She felt a shudder travel through him, an aftershock of the emotional earthquake of those days. "I could replace Max, in a way, even if it wouldn't be the same, but I could never start to replace her. I would've felt guilty every time I looked at that dog." He leaned his head against hers, and she felt a tear trickling down his face. She held him in silence, her embrace saying everything that words couldn't. "Sorry," he murmured into her hair after several minutes. "I feel like my life has been a novel sometimes."

"It's okay, Horatio. At least, you've been a high-class tragic novel. You're literature. My life was a cheap novel sold in airports." She kissed him thoroughly. "Until you, that is."

"Until you," he repeated. "You changed everything." He kissed her back, the cold wind no match for their mutual fire, and Calleigh started wondering how much scope of possibility there was while hiding underneath someone's hedge in the dark, waiting to commit an illegal search, with a large German Shepherd attached to them by a leash. Horatio abruptly raised his head. "Someone's coming," he whispered. Argo's head was up, his muzzle pointing like a compass. "Quiet," Horatio commanded.

Footsteps approached confidently behind the hovering circle of a flashlight. It was Daniels, the gardener, walking the perimeter of the estate on his usual nightly checkup. Horatio and Calleigh both closed their eyes as the circle came closer, and Horatio held one hand across Argo's eyes, preventing them from gleaming in the light. Daniels was humming to himself, casual, only half paying attention. This walk was too routine to hold his interest. He passed not five feet from them on the other side of the fence and never saw the dark dog and the two dark-clothed people crouching under the hedge.

Horatio removed his hand from Argo's eyes, but everyone was silent until the crunching footsteps on the grass could no longer be heard. "Maybe they'll all go to bed soon." He gave Argo a pat. The dog had been as still and quiet as a statue. "Good dog."

Calleigh looked at her watch, hitting the button to illuminate the dial. "It's 12:45, Horatio."

He studied his own watch for a second opinion. "I hate the waiting, but we won't help anything by getting caught before we complete the search. I figure we should wait at least a half hour past when all the lights are out."

Calleigh suddenly giggled, choking the sound back. "A few minutes ago, right before Daniels came by, I was considering more interesting ways of passing the time."

She felt his grin in the dark. "You weren't the only one. Unfortunately, I think even Daniels would have noticed that."

"Even if we were silent?" She kissed him again, and he responded for just a second before enforcing the restraint.

"Hard to stay silent. Besides, I still think there must be fireworks going off above us every time. Not only would Daniels see, but the hedge might catch on fire. We might have had the fire department out here. That's hardly the prelude to successful breaking and entering."

Calleigh laughed, trying to stay as quiet as she could. Oddly, both of them were more relaxed at the moment while waiting to break the law than they had been the last few weeks working on the right side of it.

"It's not so odd," Horatio replied. "We're doing something here. We will have an answer in a few hours, positive or negative. There haven't been many definite answers on this case."

"Horatio, I think you're a mind reader."

"Yours, anyway. And trust me, it's hardly a cheap novel sold in airports." He fanned his fingers lightly through her hair. "You do it, too. You walked right in this afternoon and knew what I was going to do."

"It was perfectly obvious, once I saw you'd taken your badge off. Besides, Alexx had forewarned me."

"Alexx knows?"

"I'm sure she does now, after we left Rosalind with her, but earlier, after she saw you in the break room, she knew you were planning something. She just wasn't sure what. So she called me to go pry it out of you."

Horatio chuckled. "I've spent most of my life trying to hide what I was thinking from people. I wonder if I've always been this lousy at it. No, it must be that I've just surrounded by exceptional people at the moment. Including, of course, an exceptional wife." His head came up. The golden windows in the house had winked out. "Lights off."

Calleigh looked at her watch. "1:00."

"At 1:30, we move." His voice was purely professional now. They waited in silent unison as their watches slowly counted down the minutes.


	11. Caine Mutiny 11

Chapter 11 of the Caine Mutiny. This story will probably have 12 chapters, maybe 13. It's awfully hard to judge length mentally compared to on paper, but there's not much left. It should stay under 15, which was my goal, though it will easily be the longest in the series. Enjoy! Deb

(H/C)

"The German Shepherd is known throughout the world for his uncanny intelligence and faithfulness . . .It is poised but, when the occasion demands, eager and alert." From the American Kennel Club breed standard for German Shepherds.

(H/C)

Horatio stood, scrambling out from under the hedge, and took out the cutters he had brought along. A chain-link fence stood between a lifetime of working within the law, even if precariously a few times, and blatant disregard of one of its most basic principles. Several quick snips, and the barrier was broken with surprisingly little resistance. Horatio curved the wire away, opening the hole, and stepped through with Argo at his heels. Calleigh followed and put the wire back into place as well as she could. It still sagged away. "Let's be sure to remember this spot if we need to make a quick getaway." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"We won't be making a quick getaway," Horatio vowed, speaking softly but urgently. "Argo can't run, and I'm not going to. We're searching every inch, and if we leave with Bill, we're leaving by the front gates."

"What if he really isn't here, Horatio? What if we go over everything, and he's not here to be found?"

"Then we'll leave this way, quietly, and I'll leave enough money stuck to the fence to fix it."

Calleigh bit back a laugh. Trust Horatio to think of paying to fix the fence. If his suspicions were unjust, of course. Actual criminals could pay to fix their own fences.

Horatio looked around, getting his bearings. "I want to start with the smaller buildings, the garage and the sheds. We'll do the house last. Biggest chance of getting caught there." He bent over and touched Argo. "Argo, where's Bill? Go find Bill." He straightened up again and started for the garage. There were no yard lights behind the house, and the intruders melted into the night in their black clothes. Both Horatio and Calleigh had flashlights, but they didn't want to turn them on unless they had to. Their pace was dictated by the dog, and as urgent as this was, Horatio didn't push him. Argo was doing his best. His head was up, sifting the breeze. Once, he turned and looked behind them, toward the distant hole in the fence, and Horatio turned back as well. The night was quiet, and nothing seemed to move until he finally saw a traveling shadow, low to the ground. The cat trotted up to them, curious about the people, and only noticed the dog at the last minute. She arched up and hissed, then disappeared toward the house. Argo looked after her in disdainful silence.

"Come on," Horatio urged, though Calleigh could hear the half smile in his voice. "We've got bigger battles than that one to worry about. Find Bill, Argo. Where's Bill?" They restarted their painfully-slow progress toward the garage. Once there, they walked around the entire structure, both of the people studying the dog intently. Argo did seem interested in the back of the building, and Horatio picked the back door lock with a skill Calleigh hadn't realized he had. Once inside, they turned on one flashlight. The garage had three cars in the front part and several storage shelves in the back, and Argo was most interested in a small box on one of the shelves. It wasn't locked. Calleigh opened it to reveal several small baggies of white powder.

"Wrong search," Horatio sighed. "He is a narc dog, after all."

"It cements the tie to Narcotics," Calleigh suggested. "This is more than personal use. Either Chip is back to his old business, or maybe Mitchell had a run-in with Narcotics in the past, under a different name than we've used for the background checks. His past is missing; he could be an ex-con. Whoever is doing this wants revenge."

"We knew that before," Horatio snapped. Instantly contrite, he put one hand on her arm. "Sorry, Cal. This case is getting to me."

She was painfully aware of that. "Apology accepted, Handsome." She squeezed his arm in turn. "It's okay, Horatio." He still looked rattled, as if his remark had made him realize himself how close to the edge he was, and she turned toward the front of the building, acting like nothing had happened. "Let's check out the cars."

Horatio snapped back into their present mission. "Right." He led the dog to the front of the garage and walked him around all three. Argo's only discovery was another baggie under the back floor mat of one of them. "Damn it. I was hoping one of these had been used to transport Bill."

"He probably borrowed an Explorer again, like for Steve." Calleigh tried to stay optimistic. "If I wanted to stage an abduction, I wouldn't use my own car. Come on, Horatio, it's one building."

He nodded. "One down, three to go, including the house." They switched off the flashlight, closed the garage back up, and headed for the gardener's shed. "Bill, Argo. Where's Bill?" He wondered if the TV program had been wrong. Argo was looking for drugs, which was, after all, his usual job. Would he track his master? Maybe he had been trained past it, or maybe Lassie-type rescues only existed on the screen.

At that moment, the leash was nearly jerked out of his hand. Argo tried to push himself into a run, giving up on the fourth leg entirely and making pretty good speed on three. Horatio and Calleigh ran after him, and Argo gave an eager whine as the gardener's shed approached. He hadn't acted like this with the drugs, and for the first time, Horatio let himself be hopeful instead of just desperate. Argo stopped at the door, pawing at it. He whimpered as the movement jolted his shoulder, but he didn't slow his efforts to claw straight through the wood. Horatio didn't bother picking that lock. Instead, he backed up a step, ready to kick the door in, and Calleigh caught his arm firmly, flashbacks to that tree in Hell's Bay running through her mind even if not his. "No, Horatio, I'll do it. Pull Argo back."

He shot her a confused look, totally missing the point. "But I weigh more. Cal, we don't have time. . ."

"Precisely." She launched her small frame before he could protest, and the door, no match for her determination, yielded with a sharp crack of splitting wood.

The leash whipped through Horatio's tightening fingers as Argo launched himself through the gap. Calleigh turned on her flashlight. The shed was an organized tangle of landscaping equipment and supplies, and Argo was trying to dig through a large chest at one side. Horatio quickly cut the lock on it with the bolt cutters, but there was nothing in it except various tools and equipment. Argo ignored the open chest, still pawing at the base of it.

"Underneath it," Calleigh realized. She grabbed one side of the chest, Horatio the other, and they dragged it over a few feet. Beneath it was a wooden door, obviously leading into some sort of cellar. Horatio snapped the lock off, and they swung it wide. Argo immediately jumped inside with a happy bark. Calleigh and Horatio directed their flashlights into the hole.

Bill Weaver lay about four feet below them, cuffed to a pipe that ran the length of the hole. His shirt had been removed, and the taser marks stood out brutally against his pale skin. His mouth was taped shut, and his eyes were closed, oblivious to the anxious German Shepherd who was licking his face.

Horatio climbed into the cellar, pushing Argo away enough to remove the duct tape. He pressed his fingers urgently to the side of his friend's neck. There was a pulse, somewhat weak but at least still beating evenly. He looked back up at Calleigh. "He's got a pulse. Call for an ambulance, Cal." She pulled her cell phone out. Both she and Horatio had left their phones turned off tonight to avoid an inconvenient ring, and she was just turning it on when the voice sounded behind her.

"Freeze, blondie, or I'll blow your head off."

Horatio straightened up, tall enough that his head and shoulders stuck out of the cellar. It was Mitchell, and his gun was trained directly on Calleigh. Horatio was afraid Mitchell would still be able to shoot her even if he could get off a shot, and that wouldn't be easy with the man facing him, too. In fact, the man could probably shoot both of them from his position in the door, eight feet away, before either of them could take him down.

A throaty growl from below reminded Horatio suddenly of the dog, but could he jump out of the hole with a hurt leg? Argo answered the question for him, erupting from the cellar like a German Shepherd volcano, going without command straight for the man who had shot him, the man who had attacked Bill in front of him a few days before. Horatio and Calleigh both ducked as the shot echoed, and in the next instant, Mitchell was on the ground with 100 pounds of fury driving for his throat. Horatio leaped out of the cellar himself, registering with relief that Calleigh was picking herself up from the floor, apparently unharmed. In the next moment, Horatio had Argo's leash again. "Aus," he commanded, and the dog stopped his biting advance but from his position atop Mitchell shot Horatio a look that clearly questioned his judgment, if not his sanity. Calleigh had her gun out and trained on Mitchell now. Horatio tightened the leash up more, tightening the choke collar around Argo's neck. "Aus," he repeated, and Argo backed away reluctantly.

"Freeze!" The fourth voice startled all of them. Tripp was in the doorway behind Mitchell, gun drawn.

"Frank! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Providing backup. I've been following you at a distance since this afternoon, trying not to be spotted. I think the dog noticed me once anyway. After you left the garage, I thought I saw someone moving on the other side of it. I was checking that out, but it was only the cat. Took a few minutes. Mitchell must have slipped up to the shed while I was looking around the far side of the garage. Sorry, H."

Horatio still had a double-handed grip on Argo. "We're glad to see you. Watch Mitchell. Calleigh, call for that ambulance."

She holstered her gun and dialed quickly.

"Is Bill here?" Tripp asked.

"Yes. Alive but I'm not sure how much beyond that."

"What the hell is going on?" Connor Stapleton came running across the lawn from the house, rifle in hand. "Caine? I don't believe it. You were told to back off, and here you are breaking into my place in the middle of the night. I'll have your badge for this." There was anger dripping from his words but no guilt, no fear. He honestly didn't know what was going on in his shed. "I'm calling 911."

Calleigh hung up. "I just did. They'll be here shortly. Before you light into Horatio, Mr. Stapleton, I suggest you look in the cellar over there. First, though, put that rifle on the ground." Her gun backed up her words.

Stapleton eyed her for a minute, then for the first time noticed Mitchell, still flat on the floor, bleeding from several dog bites, and held at gunpoint by Tripp. Mitchell's eyes met Stapleton's and flinched away. Suddenly uncertain, Stapleton carefully put down the rifle, walked over to the cellar, and stared. "My God. Is he alive?"

"Yes," Horatio said. "Calleigh, could you please get these bolt cutters out of my pocket and cut the handcuffs? See what you can do for him. I don't want to let go of Argo."

She came across to retrieve the cutters, then dropped into the hole with Bill. "Anybody hurt?" Tripp asked, automatically exempting Mitchell from his concern. "He did get off a shot."

"Missed Cal and me." Horatio knelt, running both hands over the dog. Argo's shoulder was bleeding again slightly, but that was hardly surprising. He finally found a thin, red line across the dog's hip. "Just grazed him. You're a bad shot, Mitchell. This time, anyway."

"Damn dog," Mitchell muttered. Argo growled.

Stapleton looked like a man in shock. He walked back across to his wife's brother and stared down at him, saying nothing, and Mitchell looked back up at him defiantly. Tripp had picked up both Mitchell's gun and the taser he had carried, and Stapleton looked at the cold metal reality of them, then back at the man on the floor. "Why?" he finally asked.

"There are more things in life than business deals, Connor. Not that you would notice."

"But you're my wife's brother."

"Actually, I'm not. I'm her lover. She got tired of having sex with a wallet."

Stapleton's hands clenched momentarily, and then, afraid of himself, he pushed the rifle farther away with his foot. He looked at Horatio. "Mr. Caine, I'm sorry."

"So am I, but not because of you. I'm sorry that there's a widow in Miami tonight and two girls who will grow up without their father. How's Bill, Calleigh?"

"He's got a steady pulse and respirations, just weak. Capillary refill time is slow in the nails, so he is dehydrated. He's not responding to anything, but he's been hit on the side of the head with something, and that broke the skin. He's probably got a concussion. His pupils are still reacting to light, even if they're a bit sluggish. I cut the handcuffs off, and I put my jacket over him."

"He'll be okay. He has to; he can't die after all this." Horatio glanced at his watch. "What's taking that ambulance so long? Stapleton, would you open the front gate, please?"

Stapleton still looked dazed, facing the incredible dual realization that his money was not enough to buy his wife's happiness and that his power was not enough to let him see what had been going on right under his nose. He didn't say a word but walked out of the shed slowly, like he couldn't feel his feet on the ground.

"I need help, too," Mitchell put in. "I think that damn dog chewed halfway through me."

Horatio's tone was frigid. "Mitchell, every time I hear your voice, I get more angry, and the more angry I get, the more likely I am to lose my grip on this leash. I'm sure Argo would agree with me. So if I were you, I would shut up."

Mitchell looked at Argo, who was still watching him with a fixed glare, and the dog growled low in his throat. They waited for the ambulance in silence.

(H/C)

Monica glanced at her blank wrist. She had been cleaning back at home while she waited and had left her watch off. "How long has it been?"

"We've been here 46 minutes, and Bill probably arrived almost an hour ahead of us." Horatio supplied. They were in the waiting room at the hospital, having picked up Monica at her house and dropped Argo off at the vet along the way. "The ambulance people said he seemed stable."

"That's not like hearing it from a doctor." Her hands twisted together, and Horatio picked them up and squeezed them.

"He's strong, Monica. He'll make it." But he glanced at his watch again himself.

"Mrs. Weaver?" Monica sprang up from the hard, plastic chair to face the doctor. Calleigh and Horatio flanked her, and the physician looked at them questioningly.

"It's okay," Monica said. "You can give out information in front of them. How's Bill?"

"He's been through quite an ordeal, but he's going to be fine. He has a concussion. He also has dehydration and hypothermia, not to critical levels yet but heading there. It's a good thing he was found when he was. Everything is reversible, though. We've given him several liters of fluids, and we're warming him up. He seems to be responding well, and we can't find any serious injuries. I do want to keep him for observation for a few days, because of the concussion and the overall trauma to his system, but I don't see any reason why he wouldn't be home for Christmas."

Monica sagged in relief, and Horatio and Calleigh caught her by the elbows. "Is he awake?"

"Not yet. It will probably be several hours before he wakes up. You could go home and come back in the morning, if you like. I really do think he's out of danger."

She shook her head. "I need to talk to him before I leave. Can I just wait in his room?"

"Certainly." The doctor smiled at her, understanding. He gave her Bill's room number, then cut off her third repetition of thanks to remark that he did have other patients to see, after all.

"Do you want to be alone with him, Monica?" Horatio asked when the doctor had left.

"No, please. I know I shouldn't ask anything else of you tonight, but could you wait with me?"

"Of course." Calleigh gave her a warm squeeze. "I'm sure Horatio would like to talk to him, too. We'll stay right here with you."

They found Bill's room, and a nurse brought in a few more chairs from the area by the elevator. Bill seemed perfectly peaceful tucked under blankets, almost like he was sleeping naturally. He was hooked up to monitors, but Horatio took his pulse manually, just to compare to earlier in the shed. It was much stronger.

"Do you want some coffee or something to eat?" Calleigh asked.

"No," Monica said. She squeezed her husband's hand, then arranged it comfortably across his chest and pulled the blankets back up to cover it, tucking them snuggly around his neck. Tears welled up in her voice. "All I really need right now is for somebody to hold me and tell me it's over."

"Come here," Horatio offered. They locked desperately in a three-person hug, standing there by the bed for countless minutes. Finally, Horatio broke away, feeling Monica's fatigue if not his own. "Let's sit down. We can wait more comfortably that way." He pulled the three chairs together and sat down in the middle one, and Calleigh and Monica took the others. Horatio put one arm around each of them, pulling them into him. "It's over now," he repeated softly. "Everything's all right."

Gradually, lulled by the steady beeps of the monitors, Monica and Calleigh fell asleep, heads pillowed on his shoulders, overcome by the release of tension. For Horatio, it wasn't as easy. He believed the doctor, but he had been under a strain for so many weeks that his body had forgotten how to let go. He sat there, a motionless sentinel, gladly serving as a human pillow, and watched Bill's face instead of the clock as the hours slowly flowed into the morning.

(H/C)

Alexx entered the hospital room about 9:00 a.m. and skidded to a halt just inside the door. Monica and Calleigh were both pillowed on Horatio, sound asleep, but his eyes were open. He glanced from Bill over to Alexx and gave her a tired smile. Alexx studied the monitors, coming to her own professional conclusions. "He's going to be okay, then?" she whispered.

Horatio nodded. How he ever managed to extract himself without waking up the women was a mystery to Alexx, but he accomplished it, oozing gracefully out from between them, carefully propping their heads against the wall. He came over to the door to join her. "Is Rosalind okay?"

"She's fine. Concerned about you, but I tried to explain that you had called from the waiting room and you were okay. I took her to daycare."

"Thank you, Alexx. I'm sorry about last night."

She looked from his face to Bill's. "Don't be. I'm just glad it worked out."

"You knew what we were doing, didn't you?"

"After you dropped Rosalind off? Of course." She studied Horatio. "It's over now."

"I know, Alexx."

"But you need to talk to him before you can believe it, don't you?" He nodded. The ME impulsively seized him, hugging him tightly. "It is over, Horatio. Everything's okay."

"Not quite." Captain Martin's voice startled both of them, and the hug disintegrated.

"Keep your voice down," Alexx admonished, stepping back enough that the captain could see the sleeping women.

"Sorry," he replied, much more softly. "Alexx, could I have a word with Horatio alone, please?"

"Of course, sir. I'll see you later, Horatio."

"Thank you again, Alexx."

The ME left, and Horatio faced his supervisor. A pregnant silence lengthened between them for a moment. Captain Martin had been up since 2:30 that morning. Horatio couldn't remember how long he had been up. He spoke first. "If you want my badge, sir, I haven't got it with me. I didn't take it last night, but I can get it from home for you as soon as Bill wakes up."

The captain sighed. "Not just yet. You're suspended, of course, but don't turn your badge in before the official hearing. That shouldn't be long. IAB isn't happy."

"I'm sure they aren't."

"It's not just you. You realize that, don't you? Calleigh and Tripp are both facing disciplinary action, too. You might all lose your jobs over this, Horatio, and frankly, I couldn't blame the board if you did."

"Calleigh and Tripp made their own choice fully knowing the possible consequences, just like I did." Calleigh, who had been awake for a minute since the captain's entrance, felt a surge of pride in her husband. Horatio refused to diminish her decision or Tripp's, accepting them as full partners in last night's work. Every time she thought she couldn't love him more, he made her.

"We didn't compromise the case against Mitchell, though," Horatio continued. "We weren't collecting evidence, just saving a life. Anything CSI finds on processing will be gathered under a warrant, and it will still hold up in court. Besides, Bill should be able to testify."

"Mitchell isn't denying anything. He knows he hasn't got a chance. That isn't his real name, of course. Fingerprints on processing turned up his original identity. Tyler Morrison."

Horatio ran it through his recently-refreshed mental files. "Went down for drug charges about four years ago. He was one of our missing parolees." He frowned. "Obviously, he dyed his hair and put on some weight, but how did he manage to change the color of his eyes?"

"Colored contacts."

Horatio shook his head. "I should've thought of that."

Captain Martin grinned for a second. "Considering how much you did think of here, we'll call it a momentary oversight. Morrison was released a few months ago. What really set him off was that the man killed in that drug raid was his brother, even though he had a different name. They were half brothers. He was out for revenge against the entire Narcotics department."

Horatio pieced it together. "It was Steve who shot the man in that raid. Bill was there, too. But since the names were different and background records were sketchy, we never realized the relationship, and since Morrison took a new identity on getting out, he was one of the ones we couldn't completely track."

"Right. He went after Stapleton's wife purely to get access to the estate. He figured he'd have free license to operate there because Stapleton would try to block any police investigation. Morrison had met some of Chip's acquaintances in prison, so the case a year ago was actually tied in. They were complaining about Chip getting off, of course, but they convinced him that Stapleton could buy off or prevent any police involvement. He thought the estate would be the perfect base of operations. Stapleton's wife, by the way, is furious. She didn't know about the killings or his original identity, but she'll testify that he was her lover and that she brought him into the house under that guise. She sees now that he just used her."

"Hell hath no fury," Horatio commented.

"Absolutely."

"Is Stapleton pressing charges?"

"No. He's still in shock, I think. His tune may change once he sees his lawyer." Captain Martin looked at him steadily. "You realize that if he makes an issue of it, there's nothing that can save the three of you."

Horatio looked back at Bill in the hospital bed. "I realize that, sir," he said, "but frankly, right now, I just don't care."

The captain sighed. "Try to start caring at least a little before the hearing, okay?" As he turned away from the room, he reached out and gave Horatio a pat on the shoulder, saying what he officially could not, and Horatio understood.

Calleigh came to her feet, and Horatio, looking after the captain, caught the movement and faced her. "Sorry. Did we wake you up?"

"He did. You didn't." She embraced him. "Good morning, Handsome."

"Yes, it is. Sleep well?"

"Best sleep I ever had in a hospital chair." She didn't ask if he had gotten any sleep. His red-rimmed eyes had already given her the answer. He couldn't relax yet. "I think I'll go down to the cafeteria and get us some breakfast, okay?"

He smiled at her. "Okay. I don't want to leave Bill, though."

"I know. I'll be back." She hugged him again quickly, then left the room. Horatio walked over to the bedside and studied Bill, taking his pulse again. Strong and steady.

The smell of food as Calleigh returned woke up Monica where the low conversations had not. She yawned and stretched, quickly looking at her husband. "He's doing okay," Horatio said. "Are you hungry?"

"Actually, I am." She sounded surprised. She had been too worried the past two days to remember food.

"I brought us some of everything." Calleigh was juggling two trays crowded with several plates, and Horatio took them from her. "Eggs, pancakes, hash browns, fruit. Top of the line in hospital food, for whatever that's worth." She started handing out dishes and coffee cups.

Monica stared at the feast. "How many of us did you think there were?"

"Eat," Calleigh said firmly. "You, too, Horatio. Both of you have some catching up to do."

Horatio grinned at her, and she struggled to maintain a stern expression. He was surprised to find that he was hungry himself. They ate under Calleigh's supervisory urging, and they were just finishing when Bill stirred in the bed.

Breakfast was instantly forgotten as they rushed to him. "Bill?" Monica squeezed his hand. "Bill. Wake up, love." His eyes fluttered open. He didn't speak at first, just looking at Monica's anxious face, then at Calleigh and Horatio on the other side of the bed.

"I knew you'd find me," he said finally.

"How are you feeling?" Calleigh asked.

"Tired. Bit of a headache." He squeezed Monica's hand, returning the pressure. "I'm okay, Monica. What about Argo?"

"He's fine. Flesh wound in the shoulder."

"He was the one who found you, actually," Horatio put in. "Not me. He tracked you down last night."

"I'll bet you were with him, though," Bill said.

"He certainly was." Calleigh put her arm around her husband. "We'd better let you rest now."

Bill nodded weakly. "I am tired. Did you get the man?"

"Absolutely," Horatio said. "He's enjoying his accommodations at the moment even less than you are."

Bill looked around the hospital room and grinned. The grin suddenly faded into professionalism. "Steve. I think he'd been held there, too. The pipe was roughened up some where the handcuffs crossed it, like someone else fought there before I did. There'll be evidence."

"CSI is working on it," Horatio assured him. "I'm sure Steve was there. Morrison will get the death penalty for this."

A tired frown creased Bill's forehead. "Morrison?" He tried to track the name mentally.

Monica brushed his cheek with her fingers. "Just rest now. Everything's okay. Trust the force, Bill; they're taking care of the case. I'll be right here." Bill's eyes slowly drifted shut again.

"We'd better get going, Monica," Calleigh said. She knew Monica would be all right now.

Monica stood and hugged them each fiercely in turn. "What can I say? Thank you for everything."

Horatio smiled at her. "What are friends for?"

(H/C)

They exited the hospital, and as they walked toward the parking lot, the weight of the last few weeks abruptly hit Horatio like a physical blow. He literally swayed on his feet, and Calleigh took his elbow to steady him. "You okay, Handsome?"

For the first time since Steve's death, he didn't dismiss the question. "Just a little tired, I guess."

"I can't imagine," Calleigh said dryly. She tucked her arm through his securely as they walked on. "Well, since we're suspended, we've got the rest of the day off. I think we both could use it."

His head tilted tiredly as he considered. "Maybe we could pick up Rosalind and go out to the park or somewhere. Get a little rest and relaxation. She got short-changed last night."

"You're forgetting my mother."

He sagged even further. "Well, she could come along. She got short-changed last night, too. She is family, after all."

"We'll see," Calleigh stalled. They arrived at the Hummer. "Why don't I drive? You really do look a little wobbly."

"Probably a good idea," he admitted. He handed over the keys and climbed into the passenger's seat as she started the massive vehicle. "How are you holding up yourself?"

"Pretty good. I got several hours of sleep while we were waiting for Bill to wake up. Can't say much for the bed, but I had my favorite pillow." She gave him her first relaxed smile in what seemed like forever, and he responded in kind.

"What do you want to do with the rest of this day, Cal?"

"Let me think about it for a few minutes," she stalled, and he nodded and leaned his head back wearily against the headrest.

Calleigh pulled out of the hospital lot and onto the street. She glanced over at Horatio at the first stop light. He was already asleep. She thought of her mother at home and Rosalind at daycare, and she looked at her watch. They had six hours until she had to pick up Rosalind. She glanced with satisfaction at the full gas gauge and gradually worked her way out of Miami, heading up the coast. "I've made up my mind, Handsome," she said very softly. "Why don't we take a nice, long drive, just the two of us?" Horatio didn't respond. Silence gives consent, they say. "Great, that's settled, then." Calleigh's eyes cycled from the pavement in front of her to Horatio, then back as the Hummer smoothly ate up the roadway. His peaceful, undisturbed breathing was all the conversation she needed for the day.


	12. Caine Mutiny 12

Chapter 12 of the Caine Mutiny. We'll call it 13 chapters, with 12 being a short one. I was going to finish it, having tonight free, unlike most Tuesdays, but I'm going to bed early. I just don't feel like typing the IAB tonight. I'll leave it with pure H/C fluff instead. Never fear, the IAB hearing will come. Goodnight. Deb

(H/C)

"Love comforteth like sunshine after rain."

William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part 3

(H/C)

The ocean washed the shore in ceaseless rhythm, smoothing away scars from the sand, refreshing the beach for the next set of footprints. Calleigh leaned back against the sturdy rock behind her and listened to the lullaby of the waves. She was in what she always thought of now as their spot, at the large rock on the beach outside their house. It seemed almost out of place, a large granite boulder, smoothly worn in spots and jaggedly defiant in others, dropped somehow into the middle of miles of level sand. She had asked Horatio about that rock once, and she remembered how his eyes had dipped briefly to the ground, still unaccustomed to shared emotion, before he answered. "I bought it from a landscaping company when I had the house built. I wanted one thing in my life that was solid." That revelation had been early in their relationship. A few months later, it was at this spot, in a pounding, exhilarating thunderstorm, that he had asked her to marry him. They both loved the rock now and could spend hours sitting here, propped against its friendly support. At the moment, it provided shelter as well as support. Eyes from the house could not penetrate it.

Calleigh ran one hand lightly through Horatio's hair. He was lying across the sand with his head in her lap, his breathing as even and rhythmic as the waves. Tracks of earlier tears, dried by the wind, were still visible on his face, but the lines of stress had smoothed out considerably over the last day. He slept, and she kept watch. This was a private stretch of beach, and the few people who came by were their neighbors, who would not want to wake him up anyway and who were further warned to keep their distance by Calleigh's challenging eyes.

Last night, she and Horatio had finally come home with Rosalind to find Jean bubbling over with enthusiasm, wanting a report on her imagined version of the previous night's family night out. Horatio had told her, honestly enough, that everything was all right now. From his point of view it was, never mind the fact that they were suspended. After eating, they watched a movie together, a family activity that Calleigh picked. Jean loved movies and quickly was engrossed in the story, not even noticing that Horatio fell asleep along with Rosalind before it was halfway over.

Eric had called with a case update a little earlier in the evening. Searching Stapleton's estate with a warrant and with permission yielded a mountain of evidence, including tapes from the gate camera. Like the rest of the family, Morrison had a remote control to open the gate, so he could slip in unnoticed after dark, but the watchful camera had caught the license plate of the borrowed Explorer, and CSI had the vehicle, along with enough evidence from the cellar relating to both Steve and Bill to build a rock-solid case. They also had enough evidence to bring Chip down on separate charges of drug dealing, and this time, his father wasn't listening to his pleas of innocence. Stapleton was still in shock. Everything he had believed in was an illusion, and he was forced to admit it.

Today, Saturday, Jean would not have expected Horatio and Calleigh to go to work anyway, but Calleigh had told her that they were going out for a while, to visit a friend in the hospital and then to another appointment. She had suggested that Jean go sightseeing in Miami for the morning, and Jean, still happily convinced that she had saved her daughter's marriage, agreed. Calleigh had expected a battle from Rosalind when they dropped her off at Alexx's for the day, but Rosalind had gone peacefully, sensing that everything was fine again, not doubting that they would be back in a few hours.

At the hospital, Bill was much less peaceful. After sleeping most of Friday, he was ready to get out of the hospital, eager to get back to work, and absolutely offended at the upcoming enforced medical leave and psychiatric appointment scheduled for him. His argument to the doctors that it was pointless to keep him for observation for the concussion, since he had been hit on the head over 48 hours before he even got to the hospital, fell on deaf ears, and Calleigh and Horatio had left him unwillingly still in his hospital room under Monica's firm supervision.

After leaving the hospital, they had gone to see Susan Parker and her daughters, and then, they had gone to the shooting range run by Calleigh's former Marine friend and had spent a hour blowing targets to oblivion. Eventually, they wound up here, just a few hundred feet from their own house, having parked the Hummer a distance away and walked along the beach.

A bug landed on Horatio's cheek, and he twitched. Calleigh brushed it off quickly, and it circled and came back again. She knocked it off once more, but it matched her determination. This time, she swatted at it while it was still in the air and hit Horatio, who started to sit up just as her hand moved. He was already smiling as he opened his eyes. "All right, Cal, I'm awake."

"Sorry, Horatio. I was trying to hit a bug."

"My fault, then. I'll look before I move, next time." He was sitting up next to her now, and she kissed his cheek, where her hand had fallen.

"Is that better?"

He tilted his head, considering while his eyes laughed at her. "I don't know. I think it needs a lot more apology, to tell you the truth." She closed the distance again, apologizing most thoroughly, and her apology was completely accepted. They split apart only when the beat of a traffic helicopter sorted itself out from their mutual pulse. They sat back side by side against the rock as the airborne intruder whipped along their beach.

"Wonderful. What do you bet we'll be on the news?" Calleigh grumbled.

"Too late," Horatio pointed out. "We're already on the news. Remember that paper at the hospital? We might as well enjoy it." His light mood was broken, though. His eyes shifted back toward the house, as if he could see through their rock to view it. "I'm still not totally sure about this, Calleigh."

"Mother never asked last night if we were suspended, Horatio, so we weren't lying by not mentioning it. And this morning, I told her up front we were going to see a friend in the hospital."

"You also told her that after that, we were going to therapy."

"You dispute the term?" His eyes went to the beach, watching the restless waves. "We spent last night together with her, and we'll be with her tonight. If it really bothers you, though, Horatio, she's probably back by now, and she's just up the beach. You can walk right up to the house and tell her everything, if you like. Just try explaining to Mother what we were really doing Thursday night, and see what she'll manage to turn it into."

"It doesn't bother me that much," he admitted guiltily.

"Good. She was pretty reasonable last night. It's amazing how much easier to get along with she's been since she decided we were having problems."

Horatio put an arm around her, squeezing her into his side. "I'm sorry, Cal."

She didn't ask for what. She leaned into him, closing her own eyes. "She's never going to change. She can't help it, really. We'll just have to accept her like she is – and remember to walk out often enough to keep us sane. We'll probably have to spend the whole day with her at Christmas, though."

"Mmm." His sensitive fingers combed her hair. "That's what Christmas is all about, really."

Calleigh straightened up enough to see him clearly. "What?"

"The gift of love to imperfect people in a broken world."

Tears welled up in her eyes, and he kissed them away. She flung her arms around him, and they held each other, shielded and supported by their rock. "Where have you been all my life, Horatio?"

"I've wondered the same thing. I don't know how I survived without you." They kissed again and were just deepening it when the helicopter buzzed by again, heading for a different distant intersection.

"That pilot has a short memory," Calleigh protested. "He's already checked out the traffic on this beach." Horatio grinned, but there was a shadow of something else behind it. Something in her words had caught him. "What is it, Horatio?"

He hesitated, then spoke so softly she had to lean closer to hear him over the waves. "Thinking about short memories. Calleigh, when we were held hostage, when I killed Otis, do you think I enjoyed it?"

Her jaw fell open. "Do I what? Are you crazy?" He didn't respond, but his eyes pleaded for a serious answer. "No, Horatio. You were just thinking about me and about Rosalind. If you had room to think of anything else, it was just to hold on. Trust me, you were too sick and hurt at the time to possibly be enjoying it."

"Not even a little bit, on some inner level?"

"No. You didn't enjoy it, Horatio." He weighed the answer, deciding whether to accept it. "What on earth made you wonder that?"

He looked down at his hands. "I was thinking the other day, on the case, that I could kill this man when I caught him."

"You didn't, though. You pulled Argo off him, actually."

He nodded. "I thought the same thing with Otis, at the top of that parking garage. I wanted to let him fall, Cal. I wanted it so much that it scared me. Just thinking about this case, knowing that I actually had killed Otis in February, had crossed that line once, I wondered if somehow, on some level, I enjoyed it."

She understood now. "You wondered if you had totally lost control, if there was no difference between you and the criminals." He looked up at her, startled. "Think about Thursday night, Horatio. You can remember that one perfectly well. You were pushed to the limit on the case, but were you thinking, breaking into that estate, that here was your chance to live on the other side of the law, to get back at Stapleton for blocking the warrant, to go after a criminal without the rule book in hand?"

He shook his head. "I just wanted to save Bill. If I could have done it any other way, I would have."

"Exactly. And in February, you just wanted to save us. You had no choice, Horatio. You weren't enjoying it, any more than you enjoyed Thursday night." He relaxed suddenly. She hugged him, burying her face against his chest. "Don't ever think there's no difference between you and them, Horatio. There's all the difference in the world." She straightened up again, facing him. "Thinking of February, though, I want you to make me a promise."

He considered it. "If I can," he said, too honest to give her a blank check. He knew there were some things he couldn't do.

"Don't ever really kick anything hard again like you did that tree in Hell's Bay."

His eyes retreated in sudden understanding. "Is that why you didn't want me to kick in the door of that shed?"

"Yes." She gripped his arms. "Be grateful for what we've got, Horatio, but 99 percent is not 100 percent.Don't forget that. Try to think of yourself at least a little, okay? If not, think of me."

He flinched, remembering all that she'd been through that year. To him, that was a bigger motivation than avoiding hurting himself was. "I won't ever do it unless I don't have a choice and there's no one else around to kick doors in for me." He looked apologetic, realizing now that he had worried her. "I shouldn't have kicked that tree, anyway."

She kissed his nose. "Believe it or not, Handsome, you're only human." She smiled suddenly. "I broke my hand hitting a tree when I was 14. All of us have done something stupid in anger at least once. But next time, throw something, okay?"

He smiled at her. "That, I'll promise you." He looked at his watch. "Almost time to go get Rosalind. We told Alexx we'd be back by 3:00." He didn't mention precisely what time it was. Time once again measured life's building blocks, not its failures. He scrambled up and extended his hand to her, lifting her onto her feet with a surge of strength that startled her, almost pulling her shoes clear off the sand. He gave her his crooked smile, and she realized that he was reassuring her that he really was fine now. She returned the smile, accepting the statement, and they walked down the beach hand-in-hand toward the distant Hummer, leaving parallel footprints in the sand for the ceaseless ocean to smooth away, preparing the way for new ones.


	13. Caine Mutiny 13

Here's the final chapter of the Caine Mutiny. Once again, and for always, I will state my writing creed: I will never in my life, under any circumstances, write a story that does not have a happy ending. Deb

(H/C)

"Let the charge be read."

Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

(H/C)

"While Mr. Stapleton has very graciously declined to press legal charges, there is still a serious internal investigation that must proceed. We hold the public trust, and for three officers to act so blatantly beyond the scope of the law cannot be ignored. If you have any comments in defense of your actions to make to the board, you may do so." The chairwoman of the IAB panel sat back firmly in her chair, placing her bureaucratically unyielding pen in bureaucratically precise alignment across the bottom of the file on the table in front of her.

Horatio came to his feet. "My colleagues have asked that I speak for all three of us." He waited respectfully while the board glanced at Tripp and then Calleigh for confirmation. When the board was once again focused on him, Horatio continued, firmly confident. His head was up, his shoulders back, but the overall impression was not defiance but simply knowledge that he had fulfilled his own moral code. "We all will plead guilty to the charge of breaking and entering and proceeding onto Stapleton's estate without a warrant. However, we dispute the charge that we acted in frank disregard of a private citizen's property. Last Thursday, at the point when the warrant request was turned down, I went back to CSI to re-evaluate the evidence. At that time, I had no intention of proceeding with a search on my own. Were it not for a new method, the possibility of using the dog to find Bill, I would have never gone to Stapleton's estate that night. Argo had a capability that any human investigator lacks. Without disturbing property, without rifling through items, he could merely walk around an area and determine by smell whether his master had been there. I submit that this was the most respectful way pertaining to Stapleton's property that I possibly could have obtained an answer to whether Bill was on that estate. I disturbed nothing beyond the fence until we were convinced that Bill was in the shed. When evidence of a crime was turned up regarding the drugs in the garage, we left them alone and did not investigate further. I had no interest in violating Stapleton's property rights; I only wanted to find a fellow officer, and Argo offered a way to do that and get an absolutely certain verdict without disrupting private property. A search carried out under a warrant would have caused more disturbance than we did."

"I also was bound by the absolute knowledge that time was running out for Bill. I have here a statement from his doctor that in another few hours, he would have been in critical condition. In another day, he would have been dead. I had an opportunity, a new idea, that might prevent that if my suspicions were correct, without disturbing Stapleton's property if my suspicions were incorrect, but it had to be done that night. Any sort of delay would have been too long."

"To the final charge of using a police dog to attack without properly warning the subject, we plead not guilty. I did not order Argo to attack on Thursday night. Rather, he was given that command by Morrison himself, two nights earlier, when Morrison shot him and attacked his master in front of him. Morrison started that fight; Argo merely finished it. As soon as I was able to secure the situation, I pulled the dog off."

"As police officers, we are sworn to protect and serve. I truly believe that in the very unique circumstances that I found myself in Thursday night, with time running out for Bill, no warrant for Stapleton, and a means of obtaining a certain answer with minimum disturbance, I fulfilled that vow as well as I possibly could have. This did involve breaking and entering, but it was not done with disrespect for Stapleton's property. It was done purely to save a life. I regret that it was necessary, and I cannot imagine the same circumstances occurring again. As I said, but for the chance of using Argo, I never would have broken into that estate working on my own. However, if the exact same situation occurred again, I would once again make the same decision, because what we are protecting, at the heart of our duty, is not the public property so much as it is the public lives. When lives and property come into direct conflict, the right to property must yield, while still respecting it to the greatest extent possible."

Horatio sat down. There was a silence for a minute, the soundless echo of the impact of his words. In the room, which was packed to capacity, far more than usual for IAB hearings, no one moved. Finally, the chairwoman shook off the mood and looked at Calleigh and Tripp. "Do either of you have anything to add to what Lieutenant Caine has said?"

"I'd like to ask Lieutenant Caine one question, if I may." Calleigh stood. "Just underlining how much we were aware of a citizen's private property. Horatio, when you cut that fence Thursday night, I asked you what you would do if Argo searched the entire estate and concluded that Bill was not there. Tell the board what you told me, please."

"I said that I would leave enough money stuck to the fence to fix it," Horatio responded. Connor Stapleton, who was sitting in the front row of the observers, straightened up, looking even more shocked than he had for the last few days, if possible.

"Thank you. I wanted that statement in the record." Calleigh sat down.

"Detective Tripp?" Tripp shook his head and gave a wordless grunt. He was perfectly satisfied to let the others speak for him. "Is there any further evidence or testimony that any of you wish to present for consideration?"

"I'd like to present something for consideration." Eric stood up in the rows of spectators and walked to the aisle, coming forward into the moat separating the defendants' table and the board's table.

"Eric? What are you doing?" Horatio was totally puzzled. He looked at Calleigh, but she was just as surprised as he was.

"Do you object to the introduction of whatever Delko wishes to state?" asked the chairwoman.

Eric flashed his trademark grin at Horatio, looking confident and somewhat underhanded at the same time. Horatio sat back in his seat. "No, let him speak."

"Thank you." Eric took two steps forward, facing the board, and took a stack of papers out of the file he was holding. "I would like to read this document into the record. It states, 'We the undersigned members of the Miami-Dade Police Department wish to present ourselves for internal investigation and disciplinary action. Given the extremely unusual chain of events which led to Lieutenant Horatio Caine and two fellow officers breaking into the estate of Connor Stapleton last Thursday night, we feel obliged to inform IAB that, given the same knowledge and opportunity, we all would have made exactly the same decision. Therefore, as holders ourselves of the public trust, we deserve equal punishment to that given those three officers, and if they are dismissed from the force, we will promptly submit our resignations because we will no longer be qualified to perform our duty on the public's behalf.' It is signed by 286 MDPD members, including myself." Eric marched forward and plopped the document down in front of the chairwoman's nose.

Horatio came out of his chair. "Eric, what are you doing? You could lose your job!"

Eric spun around on his heel and faced his superior directly. "Shut up, H." Calleigh hooked Horatio's arm and pulled him back down into his chair.

The IAB board had found its collective voice. Three members started to speak at once, stopped, and finally, one alone continued. "Are you trying to blackmail this board?"

"Not at all," Eric replied. "We are solely concerned with the public trust. We would have made the same choice that night, if we had had it to make. Therefore, if that was such an unforgivable violation of our role as public servants, none of us are fit to remain on the force. We are untrustworthy, and we should in the public interest remove ourselves from our positions of influence."

The chairwoman squared the corners of the stack of papers formed by the signatures, making it a bureaucratically neat pile. "You may be seated, Delko." Eric fought back a grin, gave her a respectful nod, and returned to his seat. Speed leaned across Alexx to give his coworker a high five. The voice of authority continued. "Is there anything else to be considered?" No one spoke. "The board will withdraw to consider your statements." The IAB filed out of the hearing room, and the spectators turned to each other with a low rumble of conversation.

Connor Stapleton stood and walked over to Horatio. He still looked utterly dazed, as he had been since Thursday, forced to admit to himself how little his money was actually good for. "Mr. Caine, would you really have left money on the fence?"

"Yes," Horatio replied. "Actually, I'll pay to fix it now, if you'll give me the amount. I thought that you were involved, but since you aren't, you shouldn't have to bear the cost of that. You didn't realize what Morrison was doing, or Chip either."

Stapleton stared at him. "No, that won't be necessary. I'll fix it. It's not like I can't afford it, and money might as well be useful for something." He ran one hand across his face like he wasn't sure it was still there. "My wife is leaving. Chip and Mitchell – I mean Morrison – are in jail, of course. All my life, I thought money gave us special rights, but I never meant for anyone to get hurt, certainly not killed. I'm so sorry about that officer. You may not believe that, Mr. Caine, but it's true."

"I believe you," Horatio said, studying him. "You know, money can be useful, Mr. Stapleton."

"I'm beginning to debate that." Stapleton was studying his shoes.

"With genuine interest and caring behind it, it can do a lot of good," Horatio continued. "For instance, we do have a police widows and orphans fund." Stapleton's head came up suddenly as his eyes focused. "You can't undo it, Mr. Stapleton. You can't buy off what's happened. But if you really care, you can make a difference from here on."

Stapleton considered it. "That's a good idea, Mr. Caine. I'll think about it."

"One word of advice," Horatio said. "Keep your money company. Don't just send it off places without your involvement. Caring is priceless."

The door opened, and the board bustled back in. Stapleton reached out tentatively, shook Horatio's hand, and returned to his seat. The room came to order. The chairwoman glanced at a paper in front of her, as if she needed a reminder of the decision. "Your statements have been taken into consideration, as have your previous sterling records with the force. However, you did still violate the law, and that cannot be ignored." She looked back down at the paper, letting the silence lengthen. "All three of you will have a notation placed in your record, and you are also being placed on probation for the next three months. During that period, the board will be paying careful attention to how you conduct your jobs and how you follow procedure. If we become convinced of any pattern of disregard for the rules, you will be immediately dismissed from the force. This hearing is concluded."

A low rumble erupted in the room. Horatio, Calleigh, and Tripp looked at each other and slowly relaxed. "Good job, H," Tripp said.

"I was just presenting the evidence," Horatio stated. "I think it was Eric that swayed them. You know what would happen if 286 members of the force simultaneously resigned? I'm going to have to talk to him, though. That really was crossing the line. He was practically daring the board to punish him, just so he could help a friend." Horatio stood up and turned, looking for Eric, who was almost out the back door. "Eric!" he called.

"See you back at CSI, H." Eric darted out the door.

Calleigh and Tripp looked at each other in silent exasperation as Horatio, still grumbling softly about Eric's actions, gathered up the papers.

(H/C)

Rosalind ripped the paper away from the box in front of her with enthusiasm. She had been unsure what to do with the presents, but after Calleigh had demonstrated with one, she got the idea. She pulled the last paper away from the box and banged on the lid until Horatio reached over to open it. "Patience, Angel. It's not going anywhere."

Rosalind pulled the large stuffed horse out of the box. "Horse!" She hugged it, then placed it on the floor and tried to climb on. The horse, which was built in beanbag style, promptly collapsed. "That one is to hug," Horatio told her. "You can ride the wooden one." He indicated a former present, and Rosalind tottered over to it, dragging the beanbag horse behind her by one hoof.

Rosalind had started walking two days previously, having suddenly concluded that it was time to walk. She had tried, fallen, picked herself up, and swatted away any comforting hands. She didn't want comfort; she wanted to walk. After 45 minutes straight of tottering, falling, and scrambling back up, with silent tears escaping even while she refused to cry, she managed to string several shaky steps together. She had walked over to Horatio then and let herself be held for the first time since she had started the process. Horatio had been her constant cheerleader, keeping hands off and not trying to help, once he realized what she wanted, but keeping up a running scorecard, applauding her efforts. Calleigh had been busy trying to keep Jean from intervening. Jean, of course, thought that Rosalind should be picked up and comforted, even if Rosalind didn't think so.

Tonight, Christmas Eve, Jean was sitting on the couch holding a blue sweater, kneading it with her hands. "This is just what I wanted, dears. So thoughtful." It was just what she wanted because Horatio and Calleigh had given her money to select her own gift. "The best gift, though, is seeing you two so happy together. All you really needed was a little talking to. I'll never forget how I sat the two of you down right on that couch and spent over an hour explaining your mistakes to you, and it made all the difference. Just think, if I hadn't come . . ."

"There's one more present." Calleigh cut ruthlessly across her mother's words.

"Where?" Horatio looked around. "Rosalind's opened all of hers, and we already exchanged ours."

"It's in the kitchen. It's for you. I'll be back in a minute."

"In the kitchen?" Horatio looked puzzled. Calleigh had gone out for a last minute errand run, but she had announced she was going after more wrapping paper and had indeed returned with some. She must have slipped another package in while he was back in the nursery changing Rosalind.

Calleigh picked up the box and returned to the living room, feeling unusually tentative. She still wasn't totally convinced how he was going to take this. Horatio took the box from her and noticed instantly that it had air holes. "Calleigh?"

"Open it." He started neatly, painstakingly removing the paper, and Rosalind dismounted from her horse, tottered across, and ripped the wrapping away.

Laughing, Calleigh picked her daughter up. "Let Daddy open the box, Rosalind. This one is his."

Horatio opened the box and removed the kitten. It was a calico, still quite small, with a red ribbon tied around its neck. The ribbon looked slightly chewed at this point, but the thought was there. He extended one finger and scratched it under the chin, and a purr larger than the kitten filled the room. He looked back up at Calleigh, and she could see the thoughts racing through his eyes. He had told her he hadn't had a pet since Max, since his mother's death.

"I thought we needed a pet," she said tentatively. "It'll be good for Rosalind." She also thought that it would be good for him, perhaps some kind of symbolic statement in his life that the years of self-imposed solitude were truly over, that he was once again in a happy family, as he had been before his parents' deaths. She hadn't wanted to push it as far as getting a dog, but maybe a cat, she had thought. "I got it from the shelter today," she went on. "I picked one that was due to be put to sleep, so we've saved a life, Horatio. Here's at least one that you know about." She trailed off, trying to analyze his expression.

Rosalind wiggled in her arms, straining toward the kitten, and Calleigh let her go. Horatio picked up her small hand, showing her the right direction to pet the cat. The kitten purred in double time. "Horse?" Rosalind looked up at Horatio questioningly. She knew it wasn't a horse; she just wanted the term.

"No, silly girl," Jean cut in. "That isn't a horse. It's a kitty. Say kitty."

"Hope," Horatio said.

"What?" Calleigh joined her husband and daughter sitting on the floor.

"Her name is Hope," Horatio repeated.

"Hope," Rosalind said brightly.

Jean smiled down benevolently on the three of them. "Isn't it just wonderful to be a family at Christmastime? And just think, if I hadn't come, you wouldn't have been together. This is a beautiful Christmas, isn't it?"

Horatio looked at his daughter and his wife. "Yes," he said. "It is." Calleigh had been about to apologize silently for her mother once again, but Horatio forestalled her, leaning across their daughter for a deep and satisfying kiss. Rosalind, occupied with Hope, didn't notice enough to interrupt, and Jean didn't want to disturb any reconciliation. The only sound left in the room was the deep, throaty rumble of contentment from the kitten.

(H/C)

Next on CSI:Miami – Fearful Symmetry: A subseries story, the title of which I won't give away until I have to. Rosalind's first birthday brings sweet dreams, Calleigh-style.


End file.
